Zach’s car was still stuck in a mound of slushy ice four blocks from our house, but we still wanted to go grocery shopping. My projected dinner recipe involved hot sauce, milk, and blue cheese dressing, none of which were in our pantry. I looked out the window. Under the street lamps, the skim of ice over four inches of snow glittered like frosted glass. Aldi lay a mere 0.7 miles away, with a huge open field, connected to a cemetery, in between.
Zach and I donned our coats, grabbed backpacks, and ventured out into the freezing air. I borrowed Zach’s hat, which buttoned under my chin. It kept my ears warm, blocked my peripheral vision and slipped down over my eyes. We strolled down the street, then took a footpath toward the cemetery, our feet crunching loudly with each step in the snow.
The moon was almost full that night. Between it and the floodlights from the parking lot up the hill, the open field shone a soft bluish white. I glanced this scene between pushing up my hat and slipping with each step, breath steaming, body beginning to sweat. My Achilles tendons began to ache with our slow progress.
At last we crossed the field and speed-walked over the asphalt, slowing down to tread carefully over black ice. We grabbed a cart, did our shopping, packed our food into backpacks, and repeated the longer-than-usual trek over the snowy field.
Back in the house, we stamped our shoes, stripped off our coats and sweaters, patted down our hat hair, and divided our loot between the fridge and the cupboards.
That night, I made homemade buffalo wings, following this recipe. They were delicious.
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Wasn't that fun? Why if I were 10 years younger I'd have donned my boots and stumbled along with you.
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