Swisher Sweets

I walk in the door and am greeted by thousands of calories. I eat indiscriminately, a starving athlete who had oatmeal for supper too many times this week. I conscientiously avoid asking my mom what her creations are called - much less how much butter, sugar, and motherly love went into making them.

My mom is the kinda cook who looks at something sideways and it adds calories - and flavor; her broccoli is like my cream puffs. Seriously. The woman can cook. And she is on a mission to fatten me up. I comply with alacrity.

And then I'm out the door.

Four inches of new snow are calling my name. Once again, I comply. With alacrity. The snow and the waxing moon contrive to play a reflective duet that makes 9 PM look like I'm skiing across my cereal bowl. The snow, sitting in its -4°F crisper, is fluffy and fast. The insides of my nostrils burn, my eyelashes wear jewels of crystalline ice, my breath comes out in vaporous puffs.

And my skis. Oh, my skis. They swish, they swoosh, they paint the path. I look behind me, survey my handiwork - a dark stain in the snow, two parallel indentions that stretch from the house to the barn to where I stand now, at the back of the field ready to enter the forest.

As my ski tips dip into the woods, I hear it. "Hooo... hooo." Softer - and eerier - than I'd remembered. The hoot owl is here. Her cries carry across this cold night, echo between stark-naked trees whose fingers point their icy tips to the moon.

Amidst all this I
Sweetly
Swishshshshshsh...