To all of our friends abroad and afar, you who have been reading about Seattle’s Storm of the Century, the storm that was supposed to set records, dumping feet of the white stuff on us and stunning us with its snowy severity, let me just say: not. At least, not here on the island.
And we’re really sorry. Because boy oh boy did we stock up: on firewood for when the power went out, leaving us shivering,
on candles for when the power went out, leaving us in the dark, and on groceries, especially anything that I could cook on the woodstove for, you guessed it, when the power went out, leaving us kitchenless in our all-electric abode.
Instead what we got was a pretty little four inches, maybe slightly less at our house, sheltered as we are under the cedars and firs. I went out looking for signs of snowmageddon and instead found
my favorite summer garden bench deliciously frosted,
the ferns frozen in sculptural formations,
the last rose hip gently giving up the ghost,
and even, way down at the bottom of the hill, our letter carrier’s truck, proving that she wasn’t letting snow deter her from her duly appointed route.
Beppo and Zazou had evidently been outside, although when I stomped the snow off my boots and shook the flakes out of my hair, diving back into the warmth of the house,
Shel and Zazou, who were entertaining themselves by the blazing woodstove, looked at me as if I were the abominable snowperson,
while Beppo was curled into the tightest possible ball, all four paws securely tucked away from any threat of snow.
I’m tempted to cook spareribs on top of the woodstove anyway, even though the power hasn’t so much as flickered, but instead I think I’ll go put them in the oven and while they’re cooking, run out naked into the snow and plunge into the hot tub, pretending that I’m in Japan in a scalding thermal pool in sight of Mount Fuji. It’ll be no less true than the predicted snowpocalypse, and a whole lot more fun.
FRENCH LETTERS 