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What the Noreaster Brought Out In Us

My husband comes from a  long line of survivors: Holocaust and otherwise.  So when it comes to food, an unreasonable state of being comes over them.  They not only have to sit at the perfect table (right lighting, no shifty tables, quiet) but the food has to be all that they imagined.  If not, talk quickly shifts to the next meal and the one after that.  Though, let’s face it.  Talk is always on the next meal.  So you can only imagine how snowstorms and the threat of empty supermarket aisles has a way of unleashing its powerful intergenerational damage, bringing forth a manic quality in my immediate family.  We are a far cry from our forefather’s Russian siberia, as we live in puritanical New England, but the cold makes us delusional like it did Woody WoodPecker in that one snowstorm episode, in which hunger propels Woody toward lunacy, mirages of roasted turkeys all over his house.

In the event of a Noreaster, which was forecasted earlier this week, not only does my brood have to have enough gas, cash and batteries to impress a Doomsday Prepper, but our Pre-Apolcalyptic urge to stock up on milk and eggs and cereals and tuna completely overtakes us.  As for my husband, whose weakness is fresh bread, our pantry transforms into a french patisserie as we huddle in our cardigans and watch terrible television with the kids, all boundaries to hell, which might freeze over according to all the outrageous weather reports….which we all watch like its celebrity porn.  Watching the Weather Channels, the kids can’t believe a Noreaster can result in such potential damage (all computer simulated, I shout at them during insurance commercials, as I’m now a nasty short order cook).  They’ve relearned how to ignore me and try to approximate with their Bob the Builder kit what 36 inches of snow looks like.

One day, 12 inches of snow and four used slices of bread later, the kids were deflatedly getting ready for school as per brilliantly usual.  For breakfast they were given a choice of pancakes, buttered bread, rainbow bagels, fruit salad, berries, yogurt, oatmeal, but I refused to make them eggs.  Which is of course what they wanted.  Which is of course what I ended up making them.  Because I understand better than anyone how food can comfort.  Intergenerational collateral damage, anyone?  What the Noreaster brought out in my family was an unreasonable urge to stock up on perishable, organic foods, and I absolutely refuse to do it again.  Unless, of course, my kids have the day off from school.  Well, we have to eat, don’t we?

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