Survival.

In my quest to prepare a week's worth of meal ideas, I came across a recipe for triple-dipped fried chicken. As always, I read through several reviews before deciding if it was save-worthy. One cook in particular had prepared this meal in anticipation of an approaching hurricane. They spoke of how good it was, even after sitting on the counter for several hours. They said the recipe would become one of their hurricane survival items, along with bottled water and flashlights. I saw that several others (and of course I followed their lead) had marked this review as "helpful." I doubt that many of us were truly looking for a chicken recipe that could be enjoyed at room temperature and by flashlight-light. I wonder if the other reviewers were just trying to give this person a high five for being so nonchalant and adaptable when discussing matters of hurricanes.

I thought back to last Friday, when 3 feet of snow in Syracuse side roads (not to mention driveways) sent many of us into a frenzy. I thought of the devastation I had felt when I got stuck half a block from home, and the entire neighborhood watched my front bumper get yanked off (no, I didn't hit a hydrant, or a person, or anything. I didn't run over a small tree, it was the SNOW) in my ultimately successful, but very frustrating 20 minute fight with the white stuff. As I put my bumper in the trunk (what else do you do with it?) I thought of how winter drifts to a distant memory during the summertime, when all we see is the gorgeous splendor of the NY scenery. The lakes, trees, and pristine state parks.

I grumbled to myself that this would not be the last day of winter this year, or even my last year of NY winter. However, for all of my struggles and frustrations related to our current locale, not once have I been forced to plan for hurricanes. Pre-planned meals, for me, have always been more out of convenience than necessity. I guess ideas of perfection had better be left to recipes, like triple dipped fried heart attack, and less sought after in living accommodations. After all, every place has its version of winter. And in the worst of it, there is always that feeling that you aren't alone. After all, I am sure I wasn't the only one doggy-digging the snow from behind my wheels. I'm also fairly certain I'm not the only person who has had a front bumper sticking out of their trunk. After all, the man in the little Ford, at the intersection of James and Teall, chiding that he "couldn't tell if [I] was coming or going" sounded as though he had used that joke before.