Taos remains deeply convinced it's winter, but in my little casita, it's spring. Well, as far as I'm concerned anyway. Tulips, daffodils, pansies and roses blossom inside these walls, courtesy of  Albertson's grocery store. I admit it, I'm compensating. I live for color, and have been jonesing for multi-hued bloomage since I had to retire my garden in October. I know it's crazy, but my nine rose bushes are actually spending the winter in a neighborhood greenhouse. I call it Granny's, since my plants actually feel like children. Over the river and through the woods to Granny's Greenhouse we go! (Sing it with me now!)

I didn't plant any of my lovelies last year, since I'm renting this casita and couldn't bear the thought of parting with them when I move. I know, it's a little codependent--this not wanting to let my plants die during the winter. But hey, gimme a break. Until recently, I've had every color of thumb but green, so sue me if I'm going overboard with the new chartreuse-vibe of my largest digits.

I just can't get enough color. Someone recently came in my house and remarked "Looks like a rainbow threw up in here." Pretty much, but it was one gorgeous vomit. Must be a metaphor for my life. I've just reached the end of sepia, soft, muted colors and am ready for vibrancy. I've reached the end of muting my voice, watering down my intensity, tuning it down for the comfort of others. Well, more accurately, for the comfort of myself. It can be a lot easier hiding in the shadows, blending in, avoiding criticism and rejection. But at what cost? In the long run it's a great deal more expensive than being fully and truly yourself. Myself.

It's like Anais Nin said, "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

I choose to bloom. I mean, I look good in color. So does my house. And my thumbs are fierce in green.

Valentines makes me think of chocolate, which makes me think of one of my very favorite books, Chocolat.I'm a huge fan of the film, but the book is a delicacy like no other.Sumptuous, decadent, delightful writing. Joanne Harris, in this book,is everything I want to grow up to be as a writer. In fact, it was thepassage below that inspired me to write my memoir Duirwaighs and Dreamfields: A True Fairy Tale,as I understood intimately what it was to be a daughter of homespunfolklore, weaving and being woven into the bright fabric of beliefthrough storytelling.

My mother was a magician, or I thought she was. Her voice was herwand, and her stories had thatabracadabra-watch-me-pull-a-rabbit-outta-my-hat kinda magic. A fewwords from her, and my imagination took to the skies on a purplepolka-dotted flying carpet, tassels and all. On this Valentine's Day,the day reserved for the heart, I feel grateful for the pattern ofbelief she wove into my soul-fabric. Whether I listen to stories offolklore or fantasy, epic religious teachings, Buddhist koans,centuries-old mystical poetry, exaltations from Dr. King or Dr. Seuss,my chest fills easily and quickly with the twinkling lights of belief,shooting stars blazing a trail of "what if" across the sky of my heart.

They say the way we treat loved ones is a secret plea for the way wewish to be treated. I hope it works in reverse. I've been given theseeds of enchantment and can only hope the tree of my life shedsblossoms of magic and drops fruit of wonder. I hope some find their wayinto your orchard.

And in the rich tradition of sharing sweets on Valentine's, I offerone of my favorite enchantment-seeds, a small box of word-truffles, allwrapped up in red candy-floss story-ribbons by my muse Ms. JoannHarris. Though this passage involves Vianne telling Jeannot thefolklore of Easter chocolates, it is a valentine of charm, year-round.

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From Chocolat

I remember them from my childhood; the Paris chocolateries with their baskets of foil-wrapped eggs, shelves of rabbits and hens, bells, marzipan fruits and marrons glaces, amourettesand filigree nests filled with petits fours and caramels and a thousandand one epiphanies of spun-sugar magic-carpet rides more suited to anArabian harem than the solemnities of the Passion.

"I remembermy mother telling me about the Easter chocolates." There was neverenough money to buy those exquisite things, but I always had my own cornet surprise,a paper cone containing my Easter gifts, coins, paper flowers,hard-boiled eggs painted in bright enamel colours, a box of colouredpapier mache - painted with chickens, bunnies, smiling children amongstthe buttercups, the same every year and stored carefully for the nexttime - encasing a tiny packet of chocolate raisins wrapped inCellophane, each one to be savoured, long and lingeringly, in the  losthours of those strange nights between cities, with the neon glow ofhotel signs blink-blinking between the shutters and my mother'sbreathing, slow and somehow eternal, in the umbrous silence.

"She used to say that on the eveof Good Friday the bells leave their steeples and church towers in thesecret of the night and fly with magical wings to Rome." He nods, withthat look of half-believing cynicism peculiar to the growing young.

"They line up in front of the Popein his gold and white, his mitre and his gilded staff, big bells andtiny bells, clochettes and heavy bourdons, carillons and chimes and do-so-mi-sols, all waiting patiently to be blessed."

She was filled with this solemnchildren's lore, my mother, eyes lighting up with delight at theabsurdity. All stories delighted her - Jesus and Eostre and Ali Babaworking the homespun of folklore into the bright fabric of beliefagain and again. Crystal healing and astral travel, abductions byaliens and spontaneous combustions, my mother believed them all, orpretended to believe.

"And the Pope blesses them, everyone, far into the night, the thousands of France's steeples waitingempty for their return, silent until Easter morning."

And I her daughter, listeningwide-eyed to her charming apocrypha, with tales of Mithras and Baldurthe Beautiful and Osiris and Quetzalcoatl all interwoven with storiesof flying chocolates and flying carpets and the Triple Goddess andAladdin's crystal cave of wonders and the cave from which Jesus roseafter three days, amen, abracadabra, amen.

"And the blessings turn intochocolates of all shapes and kinds, and the bells turn upside-down tocarry them home. All through the night they fly, and when they reachtheir towers and steeples on Easter Sunday they turn over and beginswinging to peal out their joy."

Bells of Paris, Rome, Cologne,Prague. Morning bells, mourning bells, ringing the changes across theyears of our exile. Easter bells so loud in the memory that it hurts tohear them.

"And the chocolates fly out acrossthe fields and towns. They fall through the air as the bells sound.Some of them hit the ground and shatter. But the children make nestsand place them high in the trees to catch the falling eggs and pralinesand chocolate hens and rabbits and guimauves and almonds..."

Jeannot turns to me with vivid face and broadening grin. "Cool!"

"And that's the story of why you get chocolates at Easter."

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Happy Valentine's Day. Amen, abracadabra, amen.

I love snow. I love cold. I love the downy, white blanket that beckons me outside to make angels on a field of marshmellow fluff. But no matter how my teeth click and clatter, no matter how much steam rises from my breath as I step outside, when I duck into a cafe to get warm, I order my coffee on ice. Sue me. I'm a Florida girl. This baffles my husband Silas, who grew up in Germany. To him, coffee is a rich, dark thing, piping hot, even in July when it's 95 degrees in the shade. I think Florida ruined my chances of enjoying hot coffee. My family was always searching for ways to cool off, opportunities to bring down our inner temperature as we chugged through a muggy, green world in which winter fell on a tuesday.

Yesterday in Taos the high temperature was 17 degrees. Silas and I saddled up the 4runner and after plowing through our driveway, rode the wild, white roads to the Cup and Saucer, our favorite little Taos cafe. Dave, the cafe owner, just about fell off his teepee when I order an ice vanilla latte. "It's Taos in the middle of winter! I don't even stock ice until May 1!" I decided to order one anyway, sans ice--then turned my attention to the great white gold mine outside, and this is how Snowcicle Vanilla Latte was born. Silas and I walked outside and plucked a few icicles hanging from a gigantic pine tree. When it merely cooled the coffee, we moved on to snow, Silas shaking the pine's white fluff as I held the warm, ceramic mug beneath the branches. And the final move-kerplop!-a hand-rolled snowball dive-bombed the warm, earthy liquid and voila!: Snowcicle Vanilla Latte.

You can take the girl outta Florida, but you can't take the Florida outta the girl.

Lately I have a fascination with vegetables, and not in the way that'll keep me from appearing on a Jenny Craig "before" commercial. And speaking of Jenny Craig, can someone tell me when a size 10 became the new "Plus Size?" Am I the only one who thought Valerie Bertinelli was beautiful before all those frozen cardboard meals? And that other commercial--the one with the dark haired chick from Survivor--when she talks about her blah blah blah size 10 shrinking to a size 2 all thanks to Jenny Craig, I have a hard time not rushing the screen to slap her the taught, bony face with some sense! "Eat a sandwich!" I wanna scream. "There's more to life than fashion magazines! It's called Bar-B-Q!"

For the record, I wear a size 12/14. My "skinny" clothes are all 8/10 and my "big jeans" (which are necessary after certain holidays) are a size 16. Call me plush. Call me voluptuous. Call me big, curvy, meaty or call me normal. But call me fat and there's gonna be a rumble. And I'm pretty sure I can take Jenny Craig. She probably hasn't eaten since 1992.

So back to veggies. I have a real hankerin' for them lately. They line the windows of my studio, perch on my bookshelves and sit on my collage table. There wasn't much on my Christmas wish list, save for a patch of veggie friends. I haven't felt quite so thrilled opening presents since I was six years old and stumbled from my Christmas bed (having only slept from 3a.m., til 5a.m. when I was certain I'd heard the pitter and patter of reindeer feet on our Central Florida tar-and-gravel roof) to discover a Holly Hobbie cardboard playhouse with a giant, red ribbon.

I can't explain it. People come into my studio and ask about the attraction and I find myself at a loss for words. "They make me smile," is all I can come up with. Pumpkin heads, corn kings, squash queens, rutabaga boys and little sweet pea girls. They keep me company while I answer emails, pay taxes, manage business, write, draw and collage, all the while reminding me of the absurdity of it all--the mirth behind the veil of reality. Their silliness is contagious. I submit their images to you in hopes of spreading an epidemic.

Maybe we should send a few to Jenny Craig. I hear her sense of humor is growing thin.