In honor of the impending blizzard, I’m re-posting these memories from the October 2011 Snowpocalypse, when I was living in Northampton, MA. This essay first appeared in the Hampshire Gazette (and later on this blog).
When the snow started to fall, I was playing a card game with the Baskinettes. Which isn’t really surprising, since this is how I’ve spent a good bit of the past year, something between an honorary aunt and slow-on-the-uptake peer. (“I’m going to deal the cards instead of you. That way, it will be faster,” a seven-year-old Remy once airily informed me.)
“Do you think I should head home now?” I asked the Baskinettes’ father, aka my friend Hosie. The snow was coming down faster, in huge wet clumped flakes.
Hosie looked out the window and shrugged. “I don’t think you have to rush.”
And indeed, he was right. Back home a few hours later, safe and warm, I decided to do some baking. For weeks, I’d been meaning to make New York Times food guru Mark Bittman’s magical no-knead bread. With 10 minutes or so of hands-on time for an artisan-quality loaf, it’s a recipe easy to love. The only challenge is finding the 14-hour window needed for the dough to rest. But I had plenty of time now. I expected a quiet weekend.
The dough was just starting to rise, when I got my first inkling my night might not go entirely according to plan. My cell (only) phone rang (cricket chirped). It was the eldest of the Baskinettes, 16-year-old Ezekiel.
“We don’t have power.” The voice was aggrieved “I’m. So. Bored.”
Still, freakish as this seemed—and by “this” I mean the weather, not teen protestations of boredom—I wasn’t all that worried. I live in a neighborhood where utility lines are safely lodged underground. We rarely lose power out here. Also: It’s October! I glanced at a clock: almost time for bed.
Then everything went black.
No big deal, I thought philosophically. I’ll get a good night’s sleep. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have power back.
This did not happen.
When I got up the next day, it was really cold. I flicked the light switch. No response. No electricity meant no coffee. Something had to be done.
A Facebook friend once asked if the Happy Valley’s vaunted fashion laissez-faire extended to PJs as street wear. “Yes!” came the resounding response. “Totally! Absolutely!” It seemed that today was as good a day as any to put this to the test. I yanked on a fleece in the frigid air, grabbed my parka, slipped on boots. Keys. Purse. Money.
And then I remembered the bread.
There it was on the kitchen counter, waiting so patiently. Heading out the door, I picked up the bowl and cradled it in my arms.
I never pick up hitchhikers, but this once, I made an exception for the bundled twenty-something figure trudging tiredly down Route 9. He slid into the seat behind me, taking the bread in his lap, glad for the ride and seemingly unphased by his pajama-wearing dough-toting driver. He was bound for the Unitarian Church in town in hopes the service was still on. We talked about The Great Gatsby, Faulkner and Willa Cather. Then I dropped him at the church and parked my car, my mind once again on coffee.
But while the mood on Main Street was strangely festive, not a store or café was open. A flannel-clad me paused dejectedly. I was out of luck. (On the upside, those Facebook friends were right. No one gave me a second glance.)
I love my town for lots of reasons, and one of them is this: When you show up unannounced on your friends’ doorstep, wearing pajamas and bearing dough, you’re likely to be greeted as if you’re paying a totally normal visit. Once settled in at the breakfast table and fortified with black tea (no electricity meant no coffee grinder, no coffee grinder, no coffee), I explained to my friends Jen and Michael the purpose of my mission. “I knew you had a gas stove,” I concluded. “So I thought I could bake it here.” But a gas stove, yes. Gas oven, no. Again, I was back to square one.
Happily, here in the Happy Valley, hope springs eternal. A few hours later, up the street, back at the Baskinettes, I had the choice of two gas stoves—and yes, one of them even appeared to have a functioning gas-fueled oven. We set out on a rescue operation, the four Baskinettes and I, trekking back down the snowy hill to collect the dough from Jen and Michael’s.
So far so good.
But not so fast.
There comes a time in every endeavor when by far the most sensible option is simply to give up. Our Bread Odyssey reached this point when we found, upon arriving home, that the oven on which we’d pinned our hopes was also out of commission. Is it possible to fry yeast bread? To rig up a stove top oven? We gave some half-hearted thought to these questions, but clearly we were losing steam. And then, like some culinary deus ex machina, Hosie’s sister appeared. Yes, Lucretia had a functioning oven, and yes she would take our bread.
That night, after a largely housebound day trending towards cabin fever, the Baskinettes and I set out on foot for the nearby college campus center, lured by the prospect of heat and light and maybe even vending machines. It was just around 7:30, but it felt pretty much like midnight. Beneath a sharp white sliver of moon, our shoes crunched through snow. Still, it was good to be outside, to breathe in the fresh night air.
Then, for a strange frozen moment, I saw us as if from a distance, characters in the opening scenes of a movie that wouldn’t end well. Isn’t this how they always start, those blockbuster disaster films? An almost ordinary lovely day in an ordinary lovely town. Kids, families, plans, friends—and then The Thing appears. (Aliens, terrorists, viral pandemic—you can take your pick.) At first, no one understands what it is they’re up against. It’s just a slight cough, or a faint shadow. Or a snow storm in October.
We got power back the next day, two days earlier than predicted. All in all, we’d gotten off easy. Even the shrimp and ice cream in my freezer appeared to have survived the thaw. Within hours, you could almost feel like everything was back to normal. Almost but not quite. Not if you surveyed the piles of tangled tree limbs, leaves green against improbable snow. Not if you took some time to think about the next logical plot point.
I finally caught up with my bread again the following afternoon, now transmuted into a golden cornmeal-encrusted round. “Was easy enough to bake but seems a little, uh, dense, which is likely because of the lack of warm rise,” Lucretia wrote me on Facebook. And to sure, when I picked up the loaf, it did seem rather stone-like. But when I cut off a slice and took a hesitant bite, it was amazingly not-too-bad—especially if accompanied by a bit of homemade peach jam.
In the past few months, our little part of the world has endured its share of hardships: a tornado, a hurricane, and now a blizzard, not to mention the all-engulfing global economic maelstrom. We live in strange and unsettling times. I know this is true. I also know that, whatever dangers we face, there is hope in our human connections. Together, we can grapple with climate change—or make a loaf of bread. And if you’re going to face the apocalypse, it’s best to do it with friends.
And if you need a soundtrack: