Posted in Home, Life

Gravy & Ice

First things first :

It’s raining.

It’s cold.

The weatherman mentioned a “wintery mix” this week.

This means only one thing:

That’s exactly what it’s like living in the South.  Even the tiniest mention of snow and there is panic.  Worry.  What the hell are you going to do with all that milk and bread anyway? Because I’ll tell you what, without eggs, you’ve got some pretty shitty french toast.

We’ll see what happens in the morning.  My commute to and from work is going to be a bear, so I’m ready to hunker down in my car with some jazz and plenty of snacks.  I’d say I’d pack extra drinks, but I learned the hard way that you just do not need to drink that much water before driving home.  Man.

For the most part, we rarely see accumulation.  Sure, we see it in the sky. We see it dust our cars.  What we don’t see is enough of it to make igloo’s in the front yard or snowmen or even a decent snowball fight.  I’ve lived in the South since I was twelve.  I’ve lived in Atlanta now for four years.  And in that time, have I seen enough snow to make a snowball. Twice. Actually, I take that back.  There was enough snow that accumulated once on my patio table out back, so I put a sixer of beer in the snow. Mmmm frosty beers!

Then I made some snowballs.

Oh and snow cream! Yes yes y’all!

When I was younger, we lived in the suburbs of Detroit.  We had a plastic square with a handle on one end so that we could make our own igloos.  That was badass you guys.  Although, I don’t recall if my parents ever told us not to get too comfy in there so we wouldn’t fall asleep and suffocate.  Or something like that.  I’m not sure.  We wore snowsuits and moon boots.  Something that is pretty much foreign to my son.  Hell, when he was a toddler, it snowed so much back in Tennessee that I had to go old school with his mittens.  That’s right, I put two pairs of socks on his tiny hands.  Keepin’ it real you guys.

Some winters I miss the snow.

And by miss it, I mean the Thomas Kinkade type snow- where everything is pure and untouched. As if you could listen closely, you’d hear the soft lullaby of winter hushing you while you sipped on hot cocoa.  That’s how I like to think about snow.  Not the crazy piss tinged, grey and mushy, sort of smells like a mechanics shop snow.  No, no.  We’ll have none of that.

So tomorrow, maybe I’ll get forecast lucky and see snow.

Maybe touch it.

Right as I run screaming into Kroger about how I need to buy milk and bread.

 

 

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