I'm skeptical when it comes to weather predictions. Even if I hear about a storm coming our way, I will not believe the story until it has passed.
Well, I was warned about this present storm, the chill, the icy roads. And I didn't prepare much more than my usual 'make a soup that can feed us if I can't cook for a while.' If we lose electricity with the next punch that's supposed to hit us tomorrow night, we are in for chilly nights and cold bread and butter. The soup is gone, and I will not make another one. I'm now sick of soups.
Husband is a hardy type; he opens cans. He could live on Spam and Vienna Sausages and canned soups. Not I. For me, anything from a can is second rate food, not worthy of refined palate I've cultivated all these decades.
But now I must prepare. If not a soup, then a terrine,an eggplant parmigiana, or a pizza. All these can be eaten cold and become fillers when we have had enough cereal and milk, and peanut butter sandwiches. Maybe I should rig the fireplace to become an indoor grill for meats and pizzette, and hot-in-the-ash potatoes. Yummy.
Come to think of it, I better get busy and get the wood into the house, enough for a week of possible bad weather.
Wait. It's sunny outside; and the ducks are back on the lake; and the deer are munching on the fast-browning lawn. They are not worried.