"Oh, it was just unbelievable! Can you believe it? Five inches! I don't think we've had this much snow since your brother was two. You remember we stood him up in the snow and down he went, falling face first into it. That was that. He decided he hated it, and Daddy took him back in."

I remembered quite well my first big snow. We lived just outside of Vicksburg, at Flower's Exit. Actually, the exit was some fourteen miles away, accessed only by some treacherous backwoods driving, made only more hazardous by rain, deer, the Bigfoot many family members swear to have seen, oh and a mysterious black panther. All these were child's play compared to snow. I was five then, and I clearly remember that I was light enough to run on top of the deep fluff without sinking like my older, cooler cousins. It was a day of freedom. I could do something that they couldn't do!

You see, those same cousins saw me as an insufferable little brat infused with desperation for playmates. That obvious desperation prompted them to rid themselves of me by sticking me with odd tasks, then having me repeat them over and over. Apparently, they once built a tree house that I was keen on visiting. Entrance was promised if I moved a small log about ten feet to the left, so I did. Family dinners always bring up the story of Shannon and the Log. My lack of recollection makes it all the more entertaining to them. The story goes that they had me moving the log all afternoon, my stubborn little hands lugging it to the new desired location each time, never questioning my cousins. They were my heroes. I wanted to be them. To this day, I have no idea if I was allowed in their tree house. My rather loud family gets so tickled at the vision of my red, sweaty face scrunched up in determination, that the roaring laughter carries us into another hilarious tale from days gone by.

As I listened to my mother ramble on about her snow, I remembered to tell her about last week's blog, "I meant to tell you to get Daddy to print off last Thursday's blog for you to read. I don't know if you remember it happening, but you may. I think Topher was five and we got a terrible ice storm…"

She quickly interrupted, "Oh God, your daddy and I were laughing about that last night. We got so tickled when we talked about you in that plastic tub. Daddy kept saying, 'You know she could have died,' and then we were just rolling thinking of you flying through the Krogh's yard."

I was confused, "So you did read it?"

"No," she replied.

"That is so funny! That is exactly what I wrote about! My journey from hell in that stupid hospital tub!"

"We just couldn't get ourselves to stop laughing once Daddy said he could have killed you. If you hadn't been stopped by that car, you may have slid straight up the Trace to French Camp. We had no idea how fast you would be." She got another chuckle from the memory.

Later on, I thought about them repeatedly laughing at me cheating death. Man, they are sick people … and I am just like them. Because, like it or not, a bony child with a terrible perm going 50 mph in a yellow hospital tub being chased by a demonic death poodle is funny. If that last sentence made absolutely no sense, go to last week's Thursday entry.

Happy Cooking,

Shannon

PS: I wrote nothing about my macaroni and cheese because it is perfect. Follow the recipe and you will be happy. Also, if you put canned tomatoes or hot dogs in it, I will be very displeased.