I think I am entering a reclusive period. The great big world seems especially great big of late--immense, really, and unfriendly to boot--and my impulse is to withdraw. It's all so loud and fast. I'd like to retreat to some cozy den redolent of woolens and old books. Better yet, I'd like to retreat to one of the afternoons in 1983 when I was three and then four years old and my Granny Jewel would babysit me at her place in the Foxfire apartment complex while my mom ran errands and such. Granny would give me a snack of bread slathered with Country Crock, and my God, it tasted like hydrogenated happiness.
(What, you were expecting madeleines and tea? I'm from Arkansas, for chrissakes.)