If you grew up in the South, like I did, then you know the true glory of a snow day.
Those of you from places where snow is a regular thing get used to it. For you, it's just a part of winter, and, except on rare occasions, it's not cause for any particular celebration or precaution.
For us southern folk, however, snow is never not an event. At the slightest hint of snow in the forecast, grocery stores are immediately mobbed and every loaf of bread and gallon of milk snatched up like they're going out of style. Thus fortified, we southerners go home and hunker down, fully prepared to ride out the storm of the century (which, for us, means any amount of snow that actually sticks to the pavement). When done properly, a southern snow days is like a second Christmas when school is closed, parents are off work, and nobody goes anywhere cause ain't nobody with sense driving in this kind of weather.
Thing is, though, it's also notoriously unpredictable. How very vividly I remember being a kid, standing beside my sister, both of us with our faces pressed to the glass of the back door, watching snow drift down from the black sky through the golden porch light, only to melt immediately upon coming into contact with the ground. We would both hope and pray that magically, in the night, the ground would become cold enough to keep the snow intact, and that in the morning we would wake up to a world blanketed in white snowy goodness, and the news that there would be no school that day.
Sometimes it happened. Lots of times it didn't. Nothing ever quite disappointed me as much as the sound of my parents' voices telling me to get out of bed on those mornings after the snow started, because my miracle didn't come in the night.
But on those days when the snow did stick and school was cancelled, there was no end to the joys to be had. Even if the snow was too powdery and light to be made into a proper snowball, let alone a snow man, there was still always the sheer joy of looking at it, walking in it, running around outside until your skin burned and your lungs ached, then coming back in to warm up and watch all the Nickelodeon shows you normally missed because you were in school. And, of course, no snow day is complete without snow cream.
From what I can tell, it seems snow cream is a distinctly southern delicacy. Of course, leave it to southerners to figure out a way to make a sugary, fattening dessert out of frozen water. For anyone who's unaware, snow cream is a prepared thusly: the children are sent outside with bowls and spoons to gather the snow for the cream. The best places to get snow for creaming purposes is from the tops of the porch railing, so you don't have to stoop. One must be careful to leave a thin layer of snow on the bottom of the railing while scraping, so as not to get dirt and whatever else in the snow...cause you're going to eat that later (one of my grandmothers also maintained that you should never make snow cream from the first snow of the year, but since we can't really rely on there ever being a *second* snow of the year down here, I've been willing to take my chances). Once the children have gathered adequate amounts of snow (and it takes a lot, because significant melting occurs in the latter stages), the snow is taken inside and mixed together with sweetened condensed milk, vanilla extract, and enough sugar to kill the adult me dead instantly. The resulting cold, sweet, creamy mixture is not unlike ice cream, but runnier and sweeter, and much more novel. In describing the glories of snow cream to yankees, I've often heard the argument, "Why do you want to eat something cold when it's snowing outside?" Those people hate freedom.
Now, for obvious reasons, snow cream really isn't an option for me these days. Sure, I could try to create some sort of bastardized version out of fat free half and half and Splenda, but that would just be wrong. For some things, there is no diabetic substitute, and that's as it should be. Likewise, I no longer spend a great deal of time outdoors when it snows. I'm much happier as a grown person to spend my snow day curled up on the couch reading or watching TV. Any outdoor activity only lasts until my fingers go numb and my nose starts running, which takes all of about 15 minutes, and then I'm done for the day. Still, there's nothing quite so soothing as spending a day in a warm house, the outside world quiet and blanketed in white. The blinding diamond-sparkle of sunlight on snow and the steady trickle of melting icicles off the roof never ceases to fill me with that same childlike sense of wonder and contentment.
We've been snowed in for two days now. I've gotten through half of my new library book, watched several episodes of Pushing Daisies, had the neighbors over for tea, and made chili, peanut butter cookies, and two loaves of Maple Oatmeal Bread. The cookies I've made before, but the bread was new, and part of my new years resolution to do more baking experiments, particularly in the realm of yeast breads, which I've traditionally found daunting. This bread came out pretty dern good, I must say, though I'd hoped the maple syrup would be a bit more pronounced. Nonetheless, it's a rich, hearty bread with a very subtle hint of the coffee that was used in baking it. I'm already dreaming of how it will taste for breakfast with apple butter and a cup of chai. The recipe is from The Best of Diabetic Living cookbook, which was gifted to me by the folks over at Moore Food, Please , for whom I will be baking Snickerdoodles later on today in appreciation :)
In the meantime, though, the wife and I are headed out (gasp!) to walk the pup, who for some reason does not share our mutual love of lazy shut-in snow days. Assuming no broken bones result from our attempting to make our way through the still frozen-streets of the neighborhood, I will return home to bake cookies, continue reading my book, and soak in the last of the day's sunshine through the kitchen window.
I hope y'all stay safe and warm, and please, if you haven't yet, go enjoy the snow in whatever way feels appropriate for you :)
