No. I’m not talking about Pax, Snowpocalypse, or Athena, or whatever that little stinker groundhog dooms us to next. I’m referring to a more tranquil frost that now feels eons ago; let’s throw back to last month’s MLK long weekend, shall we? The white stuff that blanketed our celestial winter sanctuary just outside of Stowe, Vermont wasn’t greyed, or yellowed or treacherously black-iced. It descended with calm, grace and a sense of mirthful purpose. It encouraged frolicking and delighted squealing. This was not the piercing, eye-watering stuff of frozen daggers; it was the silver white stuff that stayed on my nose and eyelashes. It didn’t hurt that this jaunt also involved delectable home-cooking, new chums, blue skies and fun and games into the wee hours of the night.
But the view was horrible!
Our adorable hostess, Linda
Christmas-y tree, shortcut style
Getting my Katniss on, natch
Cross-country skiing, as it turned out, is our jam!
I’m really not as grinchy as the above may suggest, though. As I mentioned recently, Winter, I gotchu. And I will attribute much of this [relative] super-fortitude up in Jack Frost’s face to the gentle preparedness granted me by VT.