Almost thirteen years ago, I married a wonderful man. After we said "I do," I packed up all of my things and headed west. To Buffalo. Not Charlotte. Not Atlanta. Not San Francisco or San Diego or Phoenix or Houston.
Buffalo. Where winter begins in October and ends in May. Where 3/4 of the beer produced locally has a seasonal ale called "Lake Effect" (including my husband's latest homemade batch). Where even the local baseball team's merchandise comes in mostly long sleeve.
This morning, we all climbed into bed, turned on the news, anxiously awaiting that ridiculous little rodent who would predict our fate. Who would give us a chance to pack up the giant boots and puffer coats and woolen hats and mittens early. Who could bring along a little warm sun on our chapped faces and lips.
And then we heard the prognosticator's decree:
"these shadows do I see, six more weeks of winter it must be!"
The people of Punxsutawney booed. My response is a little more personal. Here it is, Phil. You had best get yourself down your little groundhog hole, and fast.
You need:
1 groundhog, preferably the kind who sees his shadow
2 tbsp. ice melt (environmentally friendly) or basic rock salt
1 c. seasonal affective disorder
1 1/2 c. polyester-down mix
2 c. lake effect snow
2 tsp. rust from overused shovel
3 fire starter logs
6 bristles from snow brush in car
4 wet, mismatched kids gloves
3 salty, brown car mats
Mix, bring to a boil, and simmer for SIX MORE WEEKS.
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