More Snow and How We Deal with It

Last night we got another dumping of snow that supposedly amounted to about 6-8 inches. At the beginning of the winter (i.e. August, heh heh. Not really, it just feels like that . . .) that much snow would have caused much more panic and mass hysteria in this household. Now, after all the horror and misery of so much snow, 6-8 inches seems like a mere dusting. (Please note that the "panic and mass hysteria in this household" means me. Handyman went to work as usual this morning, and seemed rather surprised that I even assumed he might go in late as the roads were snowy.)

I have to admit, that this particular snow fall was rather pretty, as it created a fat fluffy sort of look. How, you ask, can I be so sanguine about the whole business? Thankfulness. Yes. Thankfulness.

1) I'm thankful that I don't have to go out in the mess.
2) I'm thankful that I don't have a vehicle, so I'm not tempted to go out in the mess.
3) I'm thankful that I have a job (I teach private music lessons) that forces unwary students to come to me, so I don't have to go out in the mess. (I feel especially smug about this, as the front steps to my house are treacherous at the best of times. In winter, climbing the Mt. Everest of my front steps is rather like playing Russian Roulette.)
4) I'm thankful that I don't have any reason to make me wish to go out in the mess. (I am not crazy, like my friend Ellen, who enjoys playing in the snow and is teaching her poor children to think the same. She should be pleased, as I heard Maine is getting another foot of the stuff. To which news I say, "Bwa-ha-ha!", which is my evil laugh of meanness.)

Nope. We more sane people deal with being snowed-in in much more reasonable fashion.

We eat.

Freshly baked dinner rolls, safely tucked into my little chicken, ready for nibbling. (The rolls, not the chicken.) That's Peter's hand pinching the chicken's nose, by the way.

We're having company tonight, so I thought an extra loaf of 7-grain bread would be nice, too. For some reason that I cannot fathom, the kids do not usually care for bread, although they will eat homemade bread by the pound. Do they have distinguished taste buds that cause them to prefer homemade goodies? No. They just like to see Momma doing more work.

It strikes me that if Dr. Atkins weren't already dead, he'd die from all the carbs stashed happily away in my cupboards right now.

They do seem quite happy with themselves (and their rolls), though, don't they?

I think Peter ate four rolls for lunch, not including the eggs and cheese that accompany his sandwiches. Poor child. His photogenic genes must come from me.