This post originally appeared on Murder Is Everywhere.
I secretly anticipated a really big storm would hit the East Coast in 2026.
It’s not that I have psychic powers. I simply enjoy almanacs and folk wisdom about nature—and I keep my eyes out. One of these American folk legends is that when the acorns abound, snow is going to be profuse. And Baltimore was certainly overwhelmed by acorns a few months ago. The explanation is that this is something called a “mast year”—an abundant seed/nut production every 2-5 years resulting in more acorns than animals can consume: meaning, more trees for all of us. Yet this mast year, we had three winters’ worth of snow in one day. And isn’t a lot of snow great for baby trees?
We had a small snow a week ago as a test; light enough to shovel easily and sprinkle down the pretty bright blue crystals of pet-safe snow-melting material. Oh, for those halcyon days of having my feet on the pavement—and not mincing over snow with my abdomen braced to keep my balance! With this particular storm, I find my legs are fatigued from all the subtle adjustments and shifts from slick ice to falling into unexpected depths of snow.
Ice seems to be bad everywhere in America this winter. I saw a picture in The Atlantic‘s online edition of woman who looks like a younger version of me captured by ICE agents titled “Welcome To The American Winter.” Freezing weather, terrible bounty hunters, a woman fallen to the ground. Images of death and abuse of power and hard weather—as well as a national uprising like we’ve never seen.
Minnesotans are standing up against masked men prowling the icy streets, who incidentally can’t seem to keep their balance on snow banks. Yet a huge swath of the United States, from south to the northeast, is blessedly not under mass deportation evasion, but is nonetheless flummoxed by deep layers of ice and snow ranging from eight to thirty inches. In Baltimore, I think the snowfall was as high as 18 inches, depending on how the winds blew. I plunged thigh-deep on my walk today seeking out a bank machine from which to retrieve cash to pay for a snow plow service that never showed up.
Winter Storm Fern is not my first East Coast snowstorm. I’ve lived here over thirty years and usually have excitement about snow forecasts. I find the groaning sound of salt trucks dumping material on the streets comforting—it goes back to my childhood in Minnesota. I also love the scraping sounds of sleds and snow shovels on the street. I gaze in admiration at Baltimore neighborhoods transforming like film sets back into the 1800s, because nothing looks more charming than an old house set in snow.
This storm, though, has thrown my age—and weaknesses—at me. The snow is so high and so hard that I can’t shovel as I usually enjoy doing—even a week earlier, during a two-inch storm. Yes, we salted before this particular blizzard with Pet-Melt, and I did a bit of shoveling during the storm, but it wasn’t enough. Tony and I decided to make life simpler and hire professionals with machinery. So far the first two snow removal companies we made advance arrangements haven’t been able to come. We are waiting on a third, fingers crossed. You really need to take care of snow yourself.
The tradition in our house is to make a pot of chili on a snow day. I started this when our children were small. I usually threw together a vegetarian chili made from canned red beans and tomatoes, plus lots of fresh onion, garlic and spices. I’d also bake cornbread and cookies. We’d invite one or two families who could walk over to eat and chat with us, while the snow fell. The party felt like we were getting away with something!
Now that Tony is usually works from home, he’s taken on chili cooking with great professionalism. He mines the internet to find the exact out-of-print Fine Cooking recipe that he knows. He appreciates chili so much that he initially proposed making two variations—one white and one red—but I talked him into choosing his favorite and letting me make a vegetarian alternative. At this point, we both knew we had limited hours before the snow hit, and we were cooking for a crowd. He agreed to my point—as long as he could also bake a carrot cake.
Who would argue with that?
On the final non-snow day, he shopped. It meant driving thirty minutes to a John Brown, a butcher in the Baltimore County who sells especially delicious grass-fed beef. Here he picked up 7 pounds of sirloin tip. Then it was returning to the city and Mom’s Organic Market for canned beans in short supply, cream cheese, carrots and currants. Then he made a short walk to Eddie’s Market in our neighborhood for the black beans that were completely sold out at Mom’s. The man was exhausted, and then he had to unpack it all and start chopping, because the chili would be served the next day. While he played at “The Bear” in our kitchen, I made invitations on paper to all the neighbors on the block. I decided, why not ask everyone—including the folks living in apartments, who we saw coming and going but just didn’t know?
The chili recipe was extravagant, rising to the rim of the 16-quart stockpot. And after bubbling for a few hours, it needed to chill overnight. The pot was too tall for the fridge—but one perk of bad winter weather is the outdoor refrigerator every Minnesotan knows. My twist was sliding the stockpot underneath the dining table on the deck. I then laid a tablecloth on that table so the snow didn’t fall through it and bury our highly anticipated dish.
Snow day dawned on Sunday with flakes falling fast on the diagonal. I kept on sweeping snow from the porch and shoveling the front walk and out to the street, so our guests would be able to arrive at 12:30 onward. In between I made corn muffins and laid the table for the party. We weren’t sure how many people would come, so we put out mugs to fill with the chili, which would stay hot in a slow cooker. My second dish was a vegetarian shepherd’s pie made on Saturday. It was simple: a layer of richly seasoned tepary beans underneath mashed potatoes. Yes, we could have made a green salad, but why? It wasn’t a normal, polite sit-down lunch with china. It was a snowstorm chili party, which meant you could eat casually in any room, holding your food in one hand and a spoon in the other.
We didn’t know who or how many would come—but the result was just right. About fifteen people, many of them not known to us. Three of these millennial households brought batches of fantastic home-baked cookies. There was plenty of wine and water and kombucha.
What a party it was! Our youngest guest was ten months, and our oldest in the neighborhood of eighty. I met 10 new people, right in my own house. I realized the beauty of living in a neighborhood that mixed homeowners and renters; students, retirees and workers. It makes for a great party mix.
We have a lot of snow, but we are so lucky not to have lost power. And luckier still to have had new friends in our house—bringing a sense of not being alone, even when marooned.