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Chestnuts and Whisky
A lovely wife and a fire in the hearth.
The ultra-modern kitchen feels warm and welcoming with the opaque glint of a Scottish winter evening. The sturdy stone walls hold in the warmth, shielding us from the chill winds that swept in from across the Highlands earlier today.
At this time of writing, I feel a flicker of the joy I haven’t known in some time — far from the chaos we’ve left behind.
The living room beyond the kitchen is purposefully dimly lit, its corners softened by the shifting shadows of a fire crackling in the hearth. It’s a quiet, soothing rhythm of stillness outside the stone cottage.
We’ve returned, this time to stay, to escape the weight of an American life consumed by endless differences and divisions. The fury and chaos of politics had seeped into everything back home, leaving no space untouched.
Scotland, with its rugged landscapes and timeless calm, offers us a chance to breathe again, to rediscover what life can feel like when it is simpler and quieter.
The soft chime of the oven timer breaks my thoughts. The chestnuts are ready. I clap my hands lightly and turn toward the fire.
