Reading of home is like reading a worn edition of a classic. I can read of snow and cold and fireplaces, but it's simply a distant memory that I can feel long ago, an environment that I can relate to; the characters are no more real than Huckleberry Finn or Oliver Twist.
Perhaps it's a defense mechanism. I can read the story, enjoying the mood and the scenery and the emotions of the characters, but I don't have to be wrapped up in them. I'm not missing from the story. I don't have to deal with those feelings if I don't feel like it.
It's easier to believe that home is on pause, frozen in the pages of a book. A "to be continued..." that has a 10 month hiatus between editions.