Until that moment, I had been contentedly leaning against the kitchen counter, my nose deep inside a mug of freshly brewed, freshly ground, locally roasted coffee.
"Do you smell something?" he asked. Then, after a beat as my nose adjusted to the world around me. "Do you smell gas?"
Why, yes, I smelled gas.
After an initial bumbling visit to the basement, followed by a thorough investigation by the experts, it was determined that our 4-year-old boiler is "toast." Corroded and rusted far beyond its short life, it is no longer heating our home. Smack dab in the midst of another Arctic blast -- with lows in the single digits, we are without heat.
The good news is, the broken beast is under warranty, and we're awaiting an expedited replacement.
The better news?
It's late January. Not late February or even late March.
Our wood stoves in the living room and kitchen, supplemented by space heaters near the water pipes are barely holding their own. There's little chance that they could keep seedlings happy, especially since my little green charges usually take up residence in the dining room -- where two hot water radiators now sit cold and lifeless.
Kevin's eyes widened with imagined distress after I pointed that out.
There's always a silver lining. Sometimes you just have to adjust before you can sense it.