Snow-more

As I mentioned in my previous post, we’ve recently been dumped on by the Gods of snow.  And by dumped on, I of course mean we were scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, capped, and topped like a bunch of hashbrowns on a grill (SHOUT OUT for all my fellow Waffle House enthusiasts).  51” of snow later, I feel like I’ve learned a whole new set of “quiet time” coping mechanisms and I’ve confirmed that I am IN FACT not a winter person.  I like sunshine.  I like wearing skirts.  Without tights.  I can’t even remember what it feels like to be hot from the outdoors.  I seem to have blocked the misery of sub-Saharan heat and Baltimore summers, and have decided, in my head, that I miss sweating.  Ever meet a fat girl that likes to sweat?  Hi, I’m Lindsay.  I’m trying it out.  (Remind me I was into this in mid-July when the backs of my knees are sweating and my armpits are ruining yet another Michael Kors silk dress.) 

And this week has been like a rebirthing.  A screaming, kicking awakening into a dark, cold, chaotic world with malfunctioning snow-maintenance infrastructure (read: EPIC FAILURE AT SNOW REMOVAL, BALTIMORE).  We’ve all emerged on the other side of this snow storm carb-loaded, under-socialized, and hungover.  Our immune systems have been compromised; cookies and booze and a lack of Vitamin D have left us all looking a little peaked.  Our social skills have been reduced to something strangely reminiscent of a caged Chihuahua.  And for my poor friends with children—my heart goes out to you.  I know you’ve just reached your limits of good mommy.  And your kids might have learned how to make you dirty martinis. (Or you let them play with plastic bags their toys).  And, no.  I don’t judge you for this.

So this week has been a real feces storm—a shit-show of epic proportions.  Schools were closed for what felt like a century.  I didn't realize how much I valued being able to leave my house until I couldn't do it for a week.  I also never knew how much I could love two plastic chairs.  Two plastic chairs that served as a symbolic gesture to the world: If you PARK in my PARKING SPOT, I will MAIM YOU.  (And ironically enough, Baltimore respects this symbolic gesture MORE than most things...perhaps even human life? For a city with such a high murder rate, I'm shocked these chairs mean anything at all.)

And now, between the unplowed streets, the inevitable realignment my car will need from pounding these 4 foot potholes at 50 miles an hour, and the additional 45 minutes it has taken me to get ANYWHERE this week, I’m OVER IT.  The last three parking spots in EVERY parking lot are piled 10 feet high with frozen, brown doo-doo snow.  Snow so ugly you almost want to look away and dry heave.  A week later, it’s no longer the beautiful, pure, white stuff than blankets all surfaces in a magical, glittery way.  Oh no.  It’s been tainted now with all the pollution and garbage we humans produce.

Plus the snow is everywhere.  Still piled up.  Going nowhere fast.  I’ve filled my boots with snow all week attempting to leap over snow piles to get to the safety of shoveled sidewalk.  When I get to the end of a street, I’ve learned how to pray.  Pray hard.  Because when I attempt to turn left, it truly requires an act of god to see around the 12 foot pile of that doo-doo snow that the plows have so graciously removed from the streets and left in one giant very inconvenient spot. 

And I thought we were in a new age of environmental sustainability… a time when the little cars win.  When the hatchbacks and the 2-door sedans get the better parking spots and spend less at the pump.  When the hippies get big fat tax write-offs for buying hybrids, assuming the hippies are filing taxes these days.  Turns out, not only did Toyota recall all those Prius steering columns this week, but when you’ve got 51” of snow on the ground, the ONLY cars that get ANY action are diesel fueled beasts with giant tires.  Cars that behave more like subdivisions than cars.  Cars that give people superpowers in snowstorms, like seeing over 12-foot piles of doo-doo snow.  (And no offense to my SUV-driving friends, but have you noticed the assholes that drive these things!?  Well, actually, offense intended.  I’ve almost been taken out like five times this week by these suckers. I INTEND TO OFFEND.)  It’s been a rough week for the environmentalism movement.  I think the snow-removing moguls actually invented new chemicals this week, not replaced them with vegetable or soy-based alternatives.  But hey, we learned how to melt snow without heat, didn’t we? 

So I beg you, sweet baby Jesus in your golden-fleece diapers…Snow-more.  I can’t take it.  I’ll pack up my 4 bedroom home in an environmentally-deplorable 18-wheeler and head South (READ: I’ll hire some poor schmucks to pack up my 4 bedroom home, and bill you later for my doublewide in South Florida).  I’m ready for some sun and some sand and a drink I actually WANT to put ice in.  Just get me to April showers and May flowers.  I'll be good.  Really, really good.  Promise.

Snow Day

On Thursday afternoon I was making so much fun of my beloved state of Maryland. Everyone and their mother was frantically rushing about town, grabbing at the picked over shelves of bread, peanut butter, and eggs. I myself found my way to Target in the middle of this apocalyptic trial run; I joined my fellow Americans and bought bread, butter, milk, and eggs. I also bought 3 liters of wine, but that probably goes without saying. I stood in line at Target watching families pile on weeks worth of food, toys, and cleaning supplies wondering to myself if we’d even get this snow storm that we’d been threatened with. How many times do we panic for nothing? And why on earth is the person in front of me buying two jugs of Clorox, borax, laundry detergent, AND fabric softener. Apparently she had BIG plans for the snow storm. Made me feel almost guilty buying only butter, eggs, dog food, birthday cards, and my weakness: USWeekly. I clearly had plans for a much less clean and more shallow snow day.

Well, foot meet mouth. The snow started falling on Friday night and by the time I woke up on Saturday I felt like I had accidentally boarded a cruise to Alaska in my sleep. Not so much a snow day—a snow week. As the inches kept piling on, I was quite proud that I’d actually remembered to hit up Target before the storm hit (and really happy I’d picked up those big, fat bottles of vino). So, 30 inches of snow later my only regret was not buying the Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle (note: if you don’t know about these puzzles, look them up. I’m obsessed.)

Yesterday, as my roommate was recovering from shoveling our cars out (because lord knows I don't shovel snow), I said: I'm thankful for the snow. This sent her into near hysterics because it was so out of the blue and clearly said from the comfort of my sweatpants and wool socks. While she was aching from head to toe from moving literally 2-3 tons of snow off of our vehicles, I'm sitting there happily contemplating the joys in life in my elastic-waisted post-chardonnay-blasted haze. But I am. I'm thankful for it. I needed the time to relax. I think we got 30” of snow because God knew I needed to stay in bed all weekend, curled up under the blankets, snuggled with the dog (who really only snuggles with me in hopes that I’ll drop a graham cracker…not that I eat graham crackers in bed…or, rather, not that I’m proud that I sometimes eat graham crackers in bed).

And what is it about snow falling that makes me so insatiably hungry? And not hungry for things like brussel sprouts or salad. OH NO. I’m talking about cinnamon rolls and cookies and rice krispy treats. I’m talking about nachos and buffalo chicken and pizza. I want cream sauces and things smothered in cheese. And if the snow means you can’t go to the store to buy these things—you get inventive. You stand in your pantry for thirty minutes trying to figure out how something you have in your cabinet will somehow magically become the one thing you’re craving from your favorite restaurant. You use flour and sugar and eggs to make things from scratch—SHOCK! NOT FROM A BOX! The kind of inventive that means I’ve run the dishwasher twice today because I’ve been using so many pots, pans, dishes, and appliances.

It’s like an evil, cruel, unwritten law that comes with snow. And we got so much snow, that it seems that I have to eat in similar proportions. Last week it snowed and we got 2-3 inches and I made a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies just for me. As in, I was home alone. I ate at least 7 of them before I decided I’d surely die of diet-induced diabetes in my sleep if I didn’t back away slowly and eat a piece of celery. So it seems only natural that I’ve been making all kinds of concoctions this weekend and eating my body weight in sugar and butter. Which, for the record, is a lot of sugar and butter.

Nothing like a snow storm to bring out your inner 1950’s housewife. Don’t hate me yet, feminists. I DO know how amazing it feels to put on those power heels, a high-waisted pencil skirt, a string of pearls and walk down some shiny hallway with authority and that distinctive “click-clack” of a woman in charge, but I can’t help but love the feeling of standing over a stove and making something delicious from plain old ingredients. Like, please forgive me Women’s Movement, but sometimes I think we really got ahead of ourselves with this whole anti-domesticity movement. I’d take a day at home in my slippers with a Le Creuset dutch oven over a high-brow power meeting any day. Hell, I’d even give up being able to vote a time or two if you bought me a new standing Kitchenaid Mixer (but only if it’s the professional series in a stainless steel finish…I’ve got SOME standards, people). Please, don’t tell the suffragists.

So, obviously my favorite part about my snow weekend is the freedom it gives me to do whatever I want. Like right now, I’m sitting in a sea of cookbooks, trying to put to memory the unfailing albeit persnickety rules of Béchamel sauce. This is a beautiful, simple cream sauce. It consists of four ingredients: milk, flour, butter, and salt. There are three rules that ensure a perfect Béchamel. First, never allow the flour to burn (which requires keeping the butter from browning). Second, add the milk to the flour and butter gradually, and off heat to keep it from forming lumps. Third, never stop stirring until the sauce is formed. If only we could discover three basic rules to everything—three basic rules that would ensure happiness and a perfect ending. Maybe that’s why I love cooking so much. With a little thought, and a lot of heart, you can make amazing things happen with the simplest of ingredients. Recipe for life, anyone?

So, friends, enjoy the snow. Take the time to read a good book, bake a batch of cookies, and eat 8,000 extra calories. Unless you're one of those jerks that DOESN'T live in the mid-atlantic and you're lounging in 70 degree weather on a beach somewhere. PS-If this is you, I hate you. Because I hear we’ve got another storm headed our way. Could be another foot or two of snow. I should perhaps make a trek to the grocery store today to ensure my early on-set heart disease. We're down to only 6 sticks of butter.