Spaghetti, Airplanes & Snow

One need only call my kid sister to understand what these 3 concepts mean to me. She gets it and I know she is smiling as she reads.  A bowl of spaghetti with red sauce ( canned is fine), take-off (any flight, any destination -- and yes, Karen, I still smile when that plane yanks down the runway), and of course -- yesterday's much talked about snowstorm. Any combination of the above still lights me up like a child. 

Unfortunately, technology has conspired to dampen the joys of a good nor'easter. By the first moment the white stuff starts to swirl, you have heard so much about what's to come that it cannot possibly live up to expectation. And as came to pass in this instance, the botched forecast in New York was measured in feet, not inches.

Still, snow is snow and I long for the times when it simply just happened. As a kid, it meant a day off from school and shoveling our steep driveway with my dad. At college in Middlebury, Vermont, I'm not sure we even knew what a "winter storm warning" was. It snowed, a lot. We were never warned. It was great.

So ever since the advent of Doppler radar and the precision of advanced forecasting, I've adopted new rules. Once I hear it's coming, I shut down all media and hunker down for a good blow. We got one of those last night. I couldn't tell you the snowfall totals. But it was a totally wonderful 24 hours.

It Falls from the Sky: Manhattan

 West Village, midday.

West Village, midday.

 6th Avenue looking a bit deserted. Still, people have to eat...

6th Avenue looking a bit deserted. Still, people have to eat...

 Time to leave the office!

Time to leave the office!

 Ahhh, home. Good ol' Park Slope.

Ahhh, home. Good ol' Park Slope.

 Bring it on!

Bring it on!

The Morning After

In keeping with my media embargo, I ignored the emergency message that mysteriously appeared on my cell phone (ALL CARS OFF THE STREET BY 11 P.M.) and settled in for the usual blizzard fare: Pan-fried sea scallops with bok choy and mushrooms sauteed in olive oil and nam pla. Goes well with storm-watching and single malt at 2 a.m. I awoke to the wonderful sound of the silence of snow. One has to live in the city to understand. There is nothing that alters New York more than the sound of no sound. It is a rare treat.

My kids were 4 and 6 when my wife and I parted ways. The boys and I nicknamed our new digs "The KMB Club." We bought a couple of plastic blue sleds and for years, every time the flakes flew we made tracks to Prospect Park. 

The boys are both 6' tall now and in high school. I hope they had a fun day off. It's their mom's week. I have no clue. Their sleds are tucked away somewhere here in the apartment, long un-used. But today I couldn't help but tie on my boots and head up to the old sleigh hill. Ten inches or two feet? Nothing beats a snow day. Still!