New England Winter, now I remember you. As you creep back into my viscera, I'm reduced to my literary understanding of the season. Yesterday afternoon's stroller commute home was intense. Over 24 hours of snow left little on the ground, but a couple inches of slushy snow and a driving wind taxed me and the BOB to our limits. LB stayed cozy in her plastic bubble, which was covered with a layer of snow by the time we got home. I misjudged the slipperiness of a steep driveway we cross everyday, which led to a treacherous moment during which LB, the BOB, and I all slid down towards traffic, but I managed to correct. As I walked, I thought of that scene in The Long Winter, when Pa goes to get more hay so the family won't freeze to death, but the oxen (horses?) keep crashing through the crust of snow covering pockets of air. Pa has to walk ahead stamping a firm path for the animals. It was kind of like that, but with two inches of snow on a city street, not two feet of snow on an empty prairie.
Winter has also dulled my taste buds, and I find myself cooking dinners for the family that hold no appeal for me. I crave spicy, sour, creamy, and sweet, so I've declined my healthy dinners in favor of days filled with frozen mac & cheese and Easter candy. I feel like Francie in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, savoring her sour pickle after a long winter of bread and potatoes.
I was an April blizzard baby, but even with an April blizzard that's only one more month, right?
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