By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher
Let them fight over bread and milk. I have my provisions for the frozen forecast.
This wild, wacky winter weather – at least according to literally every meteorologist in the state of Texas – is on my nerves. Or maybe it’s the frigid freeze forecast or the bone-chilling blizzard blast. Either way, I am over the hype.
The cold I really don’t mind. I have a super cute winter wardrobe that still fits, I pay my bills so my heater works, and if all else fails, I have a gas fireplace. Texans’ reaction to the horrendous hyperbole is what gets on my very last nerve. Airports will close down, businesses will lock up and leave, home improvement stores become war zones – all because the temps dip into the teens. Yet New York, Minnesota, Colorado and other such places forge ahead in feet of snow for months on end. Texans fought and won our independence from Mexico as underdogs: We were understaffed, undersupplied and extremely misunderstood. We are a tough bunch. So why do we let weather forecasts get us in such a tizzy?
I headed to the Hill Country just before the winter woes settled in. Granted, I figured it would be colder than where I was, but I’m made of pretty solid stock being full grown and all, so my concerns were nominal. Sure, I made certain outdoor pipes were covered, but I didn’t go cold crazy, even though Mother called and gave me a stern winter warning – the same one she gives each and every time an Artic freeze is on the horizon. But this year, I was smart. I obliged and listened politely for a couple of minutes, then I mentioned perhaps she should embark her winter wisdom on Kolton. Thinking that her precious grandson might be in harm’s way due to lowing temps got her in a frenzy. Our conversation ended abruptly as she was on it. “Save the baby!” I proclaimed with much fanfare. I felt it a pretty clever maneuver on my part.
All was well in my trek West until it dawned on me that, as per the norm, there was likely no food in the house. Typically, that never occurs to me as food procurement is part of Mr. Kaminski’s job description – that and fleet maintenance. I have both in writing. But the food forager was not set to arrive until late in the evening, so I had the brilliant idea to do something nice. For the record, that nice thing never works out well for me.
I ran a map to a local grocery store and to my delight, passed a Home Goods on the way. Of course, I had to stop, because Christmas was 75% off. Priorities. Then I remembered the objective of my errand, and foolishly pulled into the parking lot of a local grocer.
I thought perhaps Jesus was at this particular store to bring us all home when I pulled in the parking lot. Certainly, some such event of monumental proportion was happening as it was wheel to wheel full of folks trying to park and rush in. I absolutely did not want to miss whatever was going down, so I parked, walked the two miles to the entrance and therein, madness ensued.
Folks had lost their ever-loving minds grabbing this and that. Shelves were bare. Babies were crying. Check out lines went halfway down the aisles. There was shouting, pushing, shoving and such. It was the single most ridiculous spectacle I have ever witnessed – all over a loaf of bread and a gallon milk.
I grabbed a couple of culinary essentials vowing this would be the week I would finally put Mr. Kaminski on a diet and darted to familiar grounds: the wine section. I grabbed my essentials and got the heck out of dodge losing an hour of my life that I will never regain.
All in all, it was a harrowing experience – all because of fantastic freezing forecasts. But I’m good with my fine French friend – Veuve Clicquot. After all, alcohol doesn’t freeze – right? See y’all next week – on the porch!
Patti Parish-Kaminski
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