frigidness and favorites
Dear friends, it is downright bone-chilling. I am a woman who loves her seasons, but I would like to put in a request to the powers that be to please, I am begging you, usher Spring along as quick as can be. I don’t know how much more of this arctic wasteland I can take. A previously simple act-say, walking down the street-has turned into a Survivor-style battle against the elements. I must traverse wide swaths of frozen puddles, practice duck-and-cover tactics in case of prehistoric-size plummeting icicles, and trek up and over snowdrifts the size of horses (beastly, shaggy ones), all the while hugging myself to the side of the road, dodging angry, embittered commuters.
Fortunately, salvation exists in the form of cozy neighborhood coffee shops that tune their radio to the local classical station and ply me with scalding, bitter, life-giving black coffee and acceptably chewy bagels.
Finally thawed and ever the “glass half-full” type, a few of my favorite things about my least-favorite season:
-When one is snowed in, having cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is perfectly acceptable, nay, encouraged.
–Observing your 80-lb puppy hopping like a bunny through the snow and then shoving his cold, happy nose in your hand, grateful for the olive oil you sneak into his food bowl.
-Green & Blacks Organic 60% Dark Chocolate with Crystallized Ginger. I know some consider chocolate co-mingling with other flavors heretical and blasphemous, but I am weak and need my darkest of chocolates with a lashing of spice.
-Drizzling fresh, fluffy bowls of snow with silky ribbons of hot maple syrup, then eating the resulting taffy so aggressively, I burn my tongue. It’s quite satisfactory to pretend I am a prairie homesteader in the manner of Laura Ingalls Wilder.
-Brussels sprouts, always. Preferably bathed in cream and shoveled in my mouth, straight from the pan.
-My fancy red rubber wellies. Dear boots, you have given warm, dry feet, and thus, my sanity. I am forever indebted.
Wish me luck, my friends. Tonight, I cook CB a kitschy, 1950’s housewife-in-kitchen feast in honor of this most silly and ridiculous of commercial holidays. Oh, St. Valentine, I shall make you proud and mock you just the same.