Hour the Twenty-Fourth
Okay, the bakefest continues even as the snow abates. I think I may have crossed a marital line when I brought our ancient familial New York Times cookbook (1974) into the bed with us this morning.
Stuart, groggily: “What are you doing?”
Krissa: “Looking up muffin recipes.”
Sure enough, there are muffins in the oven. I just did something I’ve never done, too – I improvised. What, you thought this Type A Control Freak DOESN’T FOLLOW RECIPES ALL THE TIME EVERY TIME TO THE GODDAMNED LETTER? She does. But I wanted cinnamon sugar muffins, so I took the basic recipe and added brown sugar and nutmeg to the dry ingredients, and made a topping out of flour, melted butter, cinnamon, vanilla, and brown sugar.
They’re in the oven. The sun is shining and the snow is flying off the roofs of New York like we’re a snowglobe being shook by an excited toddler.
Viva Les Muffins! Viva Le Blizzard!
Hour the Thirteenth
I don’t think I’ve ever eaten as much or been as lazy for this long in my life. At around 9 o’clock, when the snow briefly slowed down, Stuart and I went outside to marvel at All The Things That Snow Can Pile Up On OMG Look At That Car! Then I purposely fell down a lot because it’s fun.
Stuart: “This is kind of weather you’ve got to bring a dog out into, so he can play.”
Krissa: (throwing her whole body into another snowbank) “WHEEEEE.”
Stuart: “And instead, I’ve got a WIFE I have to take outside in this kind of weather!”
Then we came inside, stripping down out of snow covered clothes outside our apartment door (don’t be pervs, we’ve got the whole top floor landing). After the shower and the respective glasses of whiskey and madeira to warm up, Stuart and I …. you guessed it… MADE MORE FOOD. A pizza, to be precise, with fresh tomato sauce and mozzarella.
MY GOD, DOES THE EATING AND DECADENCE NEVER END?
Well, I’m going to BED, so that should stop it for a few hours.
Maybe one more clementine…
Hour the Eighth
Seriously? Truly, Madly, Deeply is the saddest films in the history of EVER. It’s been a long time since I’ve sad on a couch and sobbed my little heart out and REALLY MEANT IT about a film.
Because, really, the most terrible thing you can imagine, when you’re in love, is losing the person you’re in love with. And ironically, I imagine I could make it through any hardship in the entire world with Stuart by my side, except the only thing I couldn’t do is lose him, because then he wouldn’t be there to comfort me.
OH LOOK AT ME I’VE GONE OFF CRYING AGAIN NOW. Big splashy tears all over the keyboard. I’m going to go whimper at Stuart until he brings me a clementine and makes me laugh by blowing raspberries on my tear-stained cheek. That oughta do it.
Hour the Sixth
Stuart and I woke up at noon after the feast and BBC marathon that was our evening. The snow outside was already almost an inch, and looking like it was staying for tea and cake.
So we cancelled today’s and tomorrow’s plans. We suited up and tucked our pants in our snowboots. We pulled gloves and hats out of the glove-and-hat bin, zipped and buttoned up our warmest coats, and went out to the grocery store like the rest of New York. We bought breads and cheeses and salami and bacon and milk and clementines (o, my darlin’!) and we skipped and slipped our way home. We’ve been reading, watching sappily romantic movies like Truly, Madly, Deeply (Alan Rickman, how I love thee!) and we’re pretty happy with our snow curfew.
Observe:

There’s Stuart, with his big fuckoff engineer boots. He thinks that hat makes him look like a robot. I think he’s wrong. But it’s a pity he’s wearing it, because it means you can’t see his adorably preppy haircut. Man I love that guy.

Here’s me, and that saucy look on my face actually means, “my eyelashes have frozen my eyes open! Cool!” I’m so tough. Especially in a cute white hood. TOUGH, I tell you.