Several times this chilly winter, our dear, Sunrise meteorologist Jason Dunning, has mentioned snow. I think in all, I have seen eight flakes. Now, we all know it has been cold enough to have some fluffy stuff on the ground, but the skies have yet to cooperate. I am not seeking blizzard conditions, just an inch or two so I can get some nice shots of the kids playing in it. If any of my Delawarean in-laws are reading this, they are probably thinking I am nuts for wanting snow. They have gotten about four feet of snow in the past week. Photos of my nephew, happily crawling through snow tunnels crafted by his Daddy's hands, found their way to my email inbox, and I couldn't bear to show Jack. Four-year olds don't care about geography. Snow to Jack is something everyone deserves, no matter where they live, and I tend to agree.

Some of you remember the ice storms that seemed to come every other winter back in the eighties. One of my family's favorite ice storm stories happened when my brother was about five years old. He had terrible asthma, and wintertime meant he would be in the hospital sooner or later. After each stay, he would come home with the usual load of stuffed animals, cards, and coloring books, all carefully packed by his favorite nurse into what we called "the yellow tub". You know the tub…it is the plastic, all-purpose basin that hospitals give you. Anyway, the winter when he was five and I was nine, we had a terrible ice storm. My dad, Mr. Handyman himself, fashioned a sled out of plywood with two-by-four runners. Those with snow (ice) experience see the problem with that design. Wood doesn't really glide well (especially when you throw your wife and two kids onto it).

Since the wooden sled was an epic failure, Topher and I searched the house for things to use as snow toys. I grabbed one of the yellow hospital tubs, and met my dad at the top of a steep hill at the back of our lot that overlooked the entire neighborhood. I was a skinny, little thing, so I wiggled my scrawny buns down into the plastic tub, and Daddy gave me a big, dramatic push, thinking I wouldn't go three feet. That was an incorrect assumption, to say the least.

Have you ever seen Chevy Chase's Christmas Vacation movie? Think back to Chevy and the sled scene. Now put my head on his body. Yep, that is a pretty accurate visual. Our lot was close to five acres. I crossed that in a flash. Our neighbor's yard also passed in a blur, where I gained the unwanted attention of Angel, their ancient, epileptic poodle; she miraculously found her youth and gave chase. My family ran behind the dog, and they all tried in vain to keep up as I flew into the next lot, screaming my head off as Angel filled with determination to make me her last meal. I tried to stop or even slow my momentum with my hands, but the ice shredded my fingers (why did my mother not make me wear gloves?). My high speed adventure continued down into yet another neighbor's yard, where I was airborne for a while after hitting a large pine root. I landed in their driveway, speeding right along, straight towards the backend of their Buick. The impact must have been loud, but my screams of fear and pain were much louder. The poor neighbors stumbled out of their front door to only to discover me, laying half under their car with the Tub of Pain overturned by my head and a dog known to be more dead than alive, attacking my left elbow. Angel was quickly removed from my person, and my sweet, guilt-ridden father carried me home, trying not to laugh once he knew I was in one piece, and my mother followed along, repeatedly shushing a happy, five-year old that was anxious for his sister to do it again.

Ah, memories. That's what makes snow down here special. Winter weather is so rare that we tend to remember when it happens, and in my case, what happened to us. I have many more ice/snow memories from my childhood: a week without power and Daddy cooking scrambled eggs and Vienna sausages in an old skillet on the grill; some unknown neighbors chaining an upturned, discarded car hood to their truck and inventing what they called "the redneck sleigh ride" (this mortified my mother and she flatly refused my begging and pleading to go ride with strangers on a car hood behind a truck on an icy road that still had occasional traffic—smart lady); I also remember waking up in the middle of the night to sounds of gunfire, only to be reassured that it was just the sound of pine tree limbs snapping under the weight of the ice (which now that I think of it, isn't reassuring at all). I want Jack to have snow memories. Not necessarily the ice ones, but fun, winter memories so that he can dial up his brother when they are both in their thirties and say, "Oh my God, Wyatt, do you remember that winter when…"

Since I have had snow and memories on the brain, I craved something warm and homey to eat. I am opting to share a recipe that I did include in my cookbook, but I have not presented on the show before now. Italian Sausage and White Bean Soup is a recipe from my mother that originated with her mother, my Memama. It isn't fancy, it isn't difficult, and there are no special tricks, but it is really good, and if by chance, we do wake up to a winter wonderland sometime soon, it is the perfect thing to eat while on the couch, under a warm blanket, spending time with the family (that is until they drive you crazy and you can't wait for the snow to melt). J

Happy Cooking!

Shannon