Quadrantids from the back step, and the first loaf of the year
The Quadrantids are the meteor shower nobody plans around. They peak in the first days of January, when the nights are long and the sky is usually a lid of grey, and the peak itself is short: a few hours rather than the leisurely couple of nights the Perseids give you. Most years I miss them by being asleep or by being under cloud. This year the forecast showed a clear gap before dawn on the fourth, the crescent Moon had set hours earlier, and I had a dough in the fridge that needed to come out at five anyway.
That last part is the real reason I went out. I would like to claim dedication. It was scheduling.
The log
- 04:50 Dough out of the fridge, onto the counter. Kettle on. Outside temperature −3 °C, according to the thermometer on the shed.
- 05:00 On the back step in the reclining chair, sleeping bag over my legs. The radiant sits in the old constellation that gave the shower its name, roughly between the handle of the Plough and Boötes, and at this hour it is high in the north-east. Good.
- 05:12 First one. Short, fast, low in the east. Probably a Quadrantid; it traced back the right way.
- 05:20–05:40 Four more, one of them bright enough that I said something out loud to an empty garden.
- 05:45 The street lamp, which I had shaded with my hand for an hour, finally switched to its dimmer overnight setting. I do not know why it does this at a quarter to six rather than at midnight.
- 05:50–06:00 Three more and one sporadic crossing the wrong way. Fingers no longer reporting.
Nine meteors in an hour, eight of them Quadrantids by direction. From a dark site at the actual peak the rate is supposed to be many times that, but I was in a suburb, probably hours away from the true maximum, and seeing to perhaps magnitude 4.5 on a good patch of sky. Nine is honest. Nine is also more than I have ever counted for this shower, which says more about previous years than this one.
The loaf
Inside by ten past six. The dough had warmed for an hour and a quarter, which is about right after a cold night in the fridge. Shaped, into the cast-iron pot, 250 °C with the lid on for twenty minutes, then 230 °C without it for another twenty-two. Morris, my starter, had been fed on New Year's Eve and was in a cheerful mood, so the oven spring was generous and the ear opened properly for once.
Eaten at nine with butter, still slightly too warm to be sensible. First loaf of the year, first meteor shower of the year, both done before breakfast. I do not expect to repeat the pattern, but it is a better start than the usual one, which involves looking at the forecast, seeing cloud, and going back to bed.
Plan for this year, written down so that I can be embarrassed by it in December: one bake a week that I actually record, one observing note a month, and fewer purchases than last year. The last one should be easy.