“Bread, milk, and eggs” by IreneB. An ode to winter, because snow makes me unhinged.
Bread, milk, and eggs
The stores are packed again two days before the next snowstorm hits.
Breathe.
You can’t even pull in for some petrol because the car line is wrapping around the nearest Costco, Trader Joe’s, and Aldi’s for the head-scratching, comfort trio: bread, milk, and eggs.
What the hell are you people making?
Those viral TikTok flatbreads?
If so, you forgot the cottage cheese.
Or is it Greek yogurt?
Or maybe both?
Bread, milk, and eggs
The rain a few days ago finally cleared away the last 400 feet of stank-grey snow and ice.
Nice.
I had just gotten used to seeing grass again. Sure, it’s patchy and burnt from summer 2025, but it’s mine, damn it. My straw-green, wet-dry, hay-looking, ashy grass.
And now the next batch is lining up in the sky like a can’t-be-cancelled reservation.
Bread, milk, and eggs
How many more complaining social posts are there going to be?
Tons.
How many more updates from the news, work, or well-meaning neighbors saying, “Be safe out there!”
How many more sarcastic comments like, “Well… it is winter,” or “Snow? In winter? Groundbreaking.”
Or worse.
And how many of those ‘or worse’ posts will be written and tossed out by me? #ShadyAndPetty.
Bread, milk, and eggs
Snow in winter is magical if you’re skiing or snowboarding.
Facts.
Or if it’s Christmas Day and you’re lucky enough to be by a fireplace, plotting and planning for spring.
After that?
Those never-ending white flakes — the ones some dreamily call nature’s sparkle —
just remind me of those art projects my girls used to bring home when they were adorably little.
The ones smothered in glitter.
Then the glitter smothered them.
Then my sofas.
Then every bloody inch of my house.
And every nook and cranny of me that not even the pressure of a billion showers could erase.
For months.
Bread, milk, and eggs
The forecast says anywhere between 0.1 inches and 400 feet.
Why?
Between Sunday afternoon and Monday morning, 2035.
… Or it could miss us altogether.
The other day, a friend kindly posted that there are 20-ish days until spring.
My chest swelled with excitement reading those words.
Then I remembered the white devil can linger well into March.
And a cloud passed over me again. Probably a disrespectful, laughing snow-filled cloud.
Could I actually be allergic to snow?
I mean. It’s possible.
Bread, milk, and eggs
I’m checking the temps for the days after.
Sigh.
Are we going negative?
The kind of negative that, when I send a screenshot of it to my sister in the UK,
she warns me never to send her a temperature with a minus sign in front of it ever again or she’ll block me.
A response even colder than the screenshot.
She is my only sibling.
I have to keep her.
Now I’m thinking about the walkway to my office building. The shops. Places outside.
The steps that will turn into an Olympic ice slide and I never qualified for Italy.
When my heels safely meet the ground?
Will I slide?
Will I glide?
Or will my ankles falter so my bum connects with the frigid earth?
And how many days will it stick around this time?
Reminder to self: And if summer 2026 temps soar to 150°C,
I may be crispy, yes, but I will not complain. Not one word.
(Not that I ever did.)
But if I hear someone else within arm’s reach complaining,
God give me strength not to throw-punch them.
Bread, milk, and eggs
To the snow about to fall from the sky — I hate you.
To the snow about to be piled so bloody high — I hate you.
To the snow that forces me to pout — I hate you.
To the snow that’s about to take me out — I hate you.
To the snow that turns walkways into a full-contact sport — I hate you.
To the snow that shows out like a toxic ex in court — I hate you.
I. Hate. You.
And here’s hoping we never do this again… you frigid glittering menace.
Please and thank you.
