Blackout in the Blizzard

Newsletter 2025-12-03

When it comes to inclement weather, I have a strong anti-survival instinct. I always manage to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—unless my goal is to die of hypothermia, in which case my location and timing are spot on. Saturday, a huge winter storm was forecast for the area. The safest move was to stay home. Naturally, that’s the last place I wanted to be.

In my defense, I was tempted by food. My friend Peter offered to make mashed potatoes and Salisbury steak at his house. I thought Salisbury steak was a frozen food you made in the microwave. It never occurred to me there was a way to make it from scratch at above TV-dinner quality. For that matter, it never occurred to me that I needed anything above TV-dinner quality. I’m perfectly happy to eat food someone else prepares, regardless of if they spend all day toiling in the kitchen or nuke it for sixty seconds and serve it to me half-cold. I’m motivated by equal parts hunger and laziness. This was the wrong paragraph to emphasize my low standards. Now you’ll doubt me when I say Peter makes the best food known to man. If I’ll travel in good weather for reheated frozen food (I’m looking at you, basically every chain sit-down restaurant in America), I’ll brave a snowstorm for a gourmet meal. I might not appreciate the culinary nuance, but I’m grateful for the effort that goes into it. I’m a polite Philistine.

There wasn’t much of anything to brave early Saturday afternoon. Our predicted Snowpocalypse had amounted to a nothing burger. That’s the only kind of burger that ever disappoints me. I appreciate the lack of calories but am underwhelmed by the mouth feel. We were supposed to get three to six inches of snow. Halfway through the “storm,” we had only received a light dusting. I didn’t feel any particular apprehension about driving to the next suburb. Peter and his wife Delilah live all of fifteen minutes away if I follow the speed limits. If I attempt to break the sound barrier, I can be there in fourteen minutes and thirty seconds. It’s always working death—or, worse, a speeding ticket—to save half a minute. Even if the weather took a turn and lived up to its worst potential, we could be home before the snow had a chance to pile up. There seemed to be little risk, not that any level of risk would have stopped me. If you offer to feed me, there’s no disaster on earth that can stop me from showing up. I am the disaster.

Lola and I made the drive shortly before 2 p.m.. The roads were clear. That was good because we weren’t traveling alone. Peter had told us to bring exactly one kid. He and Delilah currently have one foster kitten. In the past, we found that any level kitten shortage led to tears. There was nothing more traumatic than bringing four kids for three kittens. The children never considered having two of them pet the same kitten. They’re not ready for that sort of advanced math. Also, they have yet to master sharing. Things got even worse when multiple kittens congregated on one girl. Invariably, one child would smell more like food than her siblings. The system rewarded whoever was the worst at washing their hands. When we had asked the girls who wanted to come with us Saturday, two volunteered. Through some method I didn’t see, they got that number down to one. I assume their negotiations were both peaceful and quiet. My eleven-year-old, Lucy, was the winner, or loser, depending on your point of view. She was in store for an uninterrupted afternoon of cat time on a day with menace in the forecast. We tempted fate and set out.

When we arrived at Peter and Delilah’s house, Lucy busied herself with the kitten while Peter continued the prep work for dinner. I’m alarmed by the amount of labor fancy food takes before cooking even begins. I don’t have that kind of restraint or forethought. I would fail the marshmallow test. I helped Peter by staying out of his way and playing a game on my phone. I’m the best kind of guest. Meanwhile, Lola and Delilah busied themselves with a puzzle. Our collective part of the cooking process was to give Peter a reason to make large recipes. Without us, he’d have to divide all the ingredients by four to make a portion for one. Nobody has the time for that much math. He also could have made the normal amount and had a fresh meal plus three days of leftovers. Don’t you dare tell him that and cost me my meal ticket.

After he finished the prep work, we had to wait. It was too early to put it in the oven and still eat a “normal” hour, whatever that means. The appropriate time for food is when I’m hungry, which is always. Most of life is just killing time between meals. Peter and I watched college football while taking turns at a digital version of Axis and Allies on his laptop. We conquered the world in less time than it took Oregon to beat Washington. They should give up on the spread formation and look into blitzkrieg. As we won the game, I looked outside. Suddenly—and by “suddenly,” I mean over the course of two hours when I wasn’t paying attention—we found ourselves in the middle of a proper snow storm. Luckily, we were in a sturdy, warm house. That’s when the power went out.