Fairy tales of ice queens have fascinated and enthralled me since I was a child, while simultaneously terrifying with their hidden threat of danger. Such thrills are the bane and brilliance of winter at once. A sorceress of ice can chill the warmest heart. The crimson branches that once swayed in a warm breeze have been stilled by the wave of an icy wand. The world looks and feels frozen. In such perfect beauty there is an unforgiving coldness, a sense that no matter how much you try to chip away at it, the heart can never be discovered.

Yet even within the frigid confines of an icy prison, some vermillion stems still pulse with life, their cells preserved in a holding pattern until a thaw. It cannot be seen by the naked human eye, but life remains in a sort of sleep. We all want to rest in the winter.

One day, not too far away, the sun will once again conquer the ice. It will melt away and reveal the wet pulsating life that once seemed lost. The return of spring.

I sense it through the crystalline beauty.

Even in the midst of winter, the garden offers delights if you know when and where to look. In this instance, it’s the afternoon hour of a sunny day, beneath a wayward gutter which coated a coral bark maple in layers of ice, like some ridged chunk of Swarovski crystal. Icicles dangled precariously from its rigid limbs, and as pretty as it was, I worried what damage might be born to the beautiful bark.

There are some things you can’t control, however, and ice freezes are one of them. Last year we had a very late stretch of frigid weather that decimated the entire crop of lilac buds. We had wrapped the shrub in plastic in a last-ditch effort to keep the buds alive, all to no avail. Some years are like that, and there’s nothing to be done.

I’m not sure what effect this icing might have on the coral bark maple. Hopefully it will come out of it unscathed. At the very least, it’s going out with a bang of beauty. Winter casts its own spell.

Another woefully-underused fresh herb is the flat leaf Italian parsley. The curly kind has given it all sorts of bad ubiquitous names, but its unique flavor, especially when used as more than just a garnish, lends a brightness that too often gets ignored because the dried kind, and the restaurant abuse of the curly kind, has made it such a pariah in home cooking. Nobody remembers to use it, but it belongs in so many dishes, chopped fresh and sprinkled on at the last minute. Give it a green whirl again.

It happens the same way every year, and always at about this time.

A yearning, a longing, a memory of something that has yet to happen, but somehow has happened all before.

The dream of summer.

When the snow gets all dirty and grimy, and a few nights tease with the promise of a thaw, I think of summer and make tentative plans in my head. Right now, I’m envisioning a background of terra-cotta, with accents of colorful tiles, and plantings of penstemon to attract the hummingbirds and butterflies that make a backyard so enchanting.

The flower catalogs will begin arriving soon, further whetting the appetite and stoking the stuff of dreams. It’s not too early to indulge in such anticipation. It’s all coming.

A happy scene is achieved with a few floating cyclamen, and this sight never fails to rouse me from the winter doldrums. It is small consolation for the memory of them in their natural habitat, but any consolation, no matter how small, is a welcome one at this time of the year. We are on the right track, however, as only one more month of winter officially remains. The rotten weather may linger, but that too will eventually be wiped away. It always is.

This is my Monday after a long-weekend away, so forgive me if I’m not quit as plucky as usual. Better yet, don’t bother me at all today because I just need to catch up in peace. To that end, I just want to point you to this linky post of previous moments of tranquility that have given me great joy over the years. We need more calm in this tumultuous internet zone.

Those of us wishing for another tale of Harry Potter were somewhat appeased by the release of a play billed as ‘The Eighth Story. Nineteen Years Later’. It picks up with the children of Harry Potter, along with all the main players of the original books, some of whom show up in memory, or in those magical picture frames where the dead still seem to live out some fragmented version of life. J.K. Rowling’s magical world was always one in which loss was inevitable and irreversible. She taught that tough lesson in as kind a way as possible. Harry’s hurt was always palpable and present even as he triumphed and gained the love and loyalty of a group of friends who became his family. The latest play, ‘Harry Potter and The Cursed Child’ is a tribute to all of that, and Rowling, Jack Horne and John Tiffany manage to recapture the enchantment, bringing our favorite characters back to thrilling life.

“Harry, there is never a perfect answer in this messy, emotional world. Perfection is beyond the reach of humankind, beyond the reach of magic. In every shining moment of happiness is that drop of poison: the knowledge that pain will come again. Be honest to those you love, show your pain. To suffer is as human as to breathe.’ ~ Dumbledore

Forget that treasonous clown who used Russia to steal the last election and focus on the recap at work here. We broke the hump of February, and we are on our last full week of the wretched month. Here’s what went down over the week of love.

Andy Cohen’s latest book ‘Superficial’ was a super-fun romp through celebrity glitz.

Keeping things simple on Valentine’s Day.

Blue Valentine.

Andy in his youth. (And younger.)

A simple meal.

Our Mom’s birthday dinner.

Narcissistic memories.

Love is pain and pain is art: Madonna’s ‘Graffiti Heart’.

A tour, back in full bloom.

Another blooming installment here, and here, and here.

Our first official brunch.

A gift from the Amish.

Nick Jonas, as hot as ever.

A super-hot Hunk of the Day run included Josh Moore, Mauricio Plastina, Keegan Whicker & Andy Cohen.