As in, cold enough to freeze the balls off 'em. Love that British expression. Somehow a bit classier than the old witch's teat reference, still hanging on from the days of the Salem trials. My point being: it was damn cold today. We were out snow-shoeing in 13 degrees. I have a deep dread of slipping on the ice, but those metal teeth really do grip into even the slickest surfaces. Realized that the large and interesting tracks we had seen the other day and were sure were from a bear turned out to be our own. How embarrassing. Now I'm finally convinced that the bears are hibernating and so I can stop imagining Werner Herzog-worthy scenarios where one chases me into a snowdrift and mauls G who has run to my defense. Tromping on crusted snow, I could almost see the North Wind puffing out his cheeks and blowing an icy blast our way. It sent the delicate top layer of powder gusting through the air, like a frigid version of the apocalyptic ash that's always drifting down in Cormack McCarthy's brilliant The Road. (Read the book; skip the movie. Sorry, Viggo.)

It takes a lot of layers to stay warm in 13 degrees, even when you're huffing and puffing up three monster hills. (Thank you, Patagonia.) So nice to have a civilized cup of Earl Grey in a thermos when you reach the halfway mark. (Thank you, G.) With such grueling workouts, I thought by now I would be dropping pounds left and right but no such luck. Could it be the hundreds of homemade caramels I have consumed? Or perhaps the chocolate-coated pumpkin seed brittle from Jacques Torres, the Dark Prince? Is bourbon fattening? (I'm terrible at dieting but foresee a new year of healthy hot pots and Tracy Anderson DVDs.) Still, two hours of snow-shoeing works up a healthy appetite. Good thing we came home to something bubbling on the stove.

Usually when I make beans, I like to throw in a meaty smoked ham hock. Lately, I thought it might be nice to try a smoked turkey wing instead—but I can't find any from humanely raised birds. They didn't have any hocks on my recent trip to Dickson's Farmstand, but they offered me a chewy, fatty "ham end" (just what it sounds like) and it was delicious in this pot of lima beans. My beans were a heritage variety that I got up the road at River Brook Farm, but you could probably make this recipe with any old limas, or any other medium-sized white bean, for that matter. I like my beans without so much liquid, more a stew than a soup, but you can always add more stock. A drizzle of the parsley-rosemary pistou adds a note of brightness, so do take the extra 5 minutes to whip it up.