For God’s Sake, Stop It!

I know, I know. This image looks familiar. You’re tired of seeing snow on my blahg. I’m tired of seeing snow out my window. It just doesn’t stop. I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! And this is coming from a dyed-in-the-wet-wool-socks snow lover. 

If I were a kid again and my father were shoveling the walk and snow-blowing the driveway while I stood in the doorway, a cup of hot chocolate warming my hands, instructing him in the proper method of snow removal, everything would be fine.

But now it’s me who has to clean that son-of-a-bitch-ing walkway, knock snow off the huge yew bushes with a too-short broom. And worst of all, carry bags of seeping, malodorous trash over snowbanks at least as tall as me–not very successfully, I might add. (You try getting the stains and stenches of soured milk, rendered duck fat, and a moldering chicken from the back of the fridge out of your only winter jacket, and then look me in the eye and say, “But it’s so pretty outside, David.”)

Snow, Snow, Snow

I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s pretty and cozy and safe. My detestation of manual labor and laundering has far outstripped my love of the white stuff. 

I never thought I’d say this, but I want heat. I want sticky sweat on the back of my neck. I want long–long as in vernal-equinox-long–days. Hell, I’d even cut the grass with the push lawnmower if it meant I didn’t have to go through another winter like this.

Of course, the biggest joke is that I’m trapped in this house and I can’t even make some of those incredible snowbound dishes like Blizzard Beef, Roast Pork in Milk, or Roast Chicken with Pancetta and Olives. No, Brilliant Me didn’t go shopping to prepare for the storm, because as of bedtime last night, nary a snowflake had fallen. So instead I’m stuck with Lean Cuisines, ancient frozen skinless chicken breasts, and a few boxes of pasta from Eataly–and no sauce. (Note to self: Tell The One what a genius idea it was to clean out the pantry, fridge, and freezer before we went away to Charleston for a long weekend.)

Oh, go ahead, ignore me. It’s fine. I’ll just sit here in the dark and bitch. Oh yeah, didn’t I mention the power went out again? At least I have Devil Cat to keep me warm.

About David Leite

David Leite has received three James Beard Awards for his writing as well as for Leite’s Culinaria. His work has appeared in The New York Times, Martha Stewart Living, Saveur, Bon Appétit, Gourmet, Food & Wine, Yankee, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, The Washington Post, and more.

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  1. We got all rain here on Cape Cod Bay. The crocus are rearing their beautiful purple and yellow heads, and the Lenten roses are particularly rich and sturdy, and some daffodil buds are showing, and the birds are building nests in their houses, ahhhhhhhhhhhhh….

    Oh and David…try decaf. xo

    1. Because you’re one of my oldest friends, I’ll refrain from profanity. All I can say is, “Bless your heart….”

      1. Hmm…David, I think the correct Southernism you’re looking for in this case is “Well, isn’t that just charming….”

        Send it west, please. We’ll gladly take it. We don’t think of it as snow so much as summer drinking water!

  2. I feel exactly the same, yet totally the opposite, about our Houston summers. I’ll have to come back and read this post in August. 😉

  3. Wait…wait…wait… I cannot find my damn violin. Seriously, do you know how many years in a row I have been begging, praying, dancing for snow? That huge blizzard a couple years ago that had every single city, town and village all over Europe from top to bottom buried under white?… well, it was dry and snowless in Nantes. And only in Nantes. Boo hoo I want snow. I’ll even help take out the trash. But you know, you can always join me down in Florida in April.

    1. Well, then, Jamie, you’re just going to have to come around in the winter more often and get your neige kicks!!