Dave, a local friend of mine, made an excellent point awhile back, that whenever a storm is announced, people rush out to buy bread, milk, and eggs, obviously in the hopes that the Storm Gods can be appeased by sacrifices of French toast. I have always hated French toast, so when I rush to the store, I get coffee cake, bacon, and steak. And sometimes a cheese log and triscuits if I'm feeling really festive. So we're armed for the snow. James made Gaelic steak tonight, which involves a sauce of Irish whiskey, lit on fire, then smothered in cream. It's even better than it sounds, which is saying something, and he still has both eyebrows.
When it was still light, I do have to say that it was lovely out back--white snow outlining all the trees, little birds flitting back and forth like they were posing for Hallmark, our local red-bellied woodpecker looking practically artifical with that fabulous red noggin against the washed out trees.
Nevertheless, it is snow, and even if every snowflake grew a tiny fairy body, joined hands, and performed a flawless rendition of the Nutcracker on the deck railing while singing carols of unearthly beauty in tiny tinkling silver voices--I'd still have to slog through that crap to get to the garbage cans.
I think living in Minnesota may have blunted some of my finer aesthetic sensabilities re: winter.