The Storm Before The Party
Everything else can wait.
Winter storms do not reward panic.
They reward preparation—and then a willingness to let go.
You can make your lists, stock the pantry, and set things in motion, but once the sky decides, you’re no longer in charge. That isn’t so different from hosting.
You do your best work in advance. You think through the menu, the timing, the details that make people feel cared for. And then you step back. The weather will do what it does. People will arrive as they are. The night will be as good as the spirit you bring to it.
It hasn’t started yet, but the planning is finished. Groceries are put away. Lists are crossed off. Soft clothes, fresh from the dryer, are earning their keep. I’m looking for the right kind of movie—the kind that keeps you company while you cook without demanding much from you. Familiar. Comforting. Nothing that requires emotional investment.
Brian and I divided the cooking the way we divide most things: efficiently and without discussion. He’s already claimed the chili and the beef stew. No one does it better. I’m responsible for clam chowder, minestrone, lasagna soup, coffee cake, and Neiman Marcus bars.
If that sounds ambitious, it is.
I’ll probably make half of it—unless I get into the kitchen early tomorrow and find my groove. That’s the pleasure of batch cooking. The momentum. Moving from pot to pot, ladle to ladle, until the counters tell the story for you. Pint after pint of soup, labeled with carefully cut blue painter’s tape, stacked neatly in the freezer. Proof of good intentions, well executed.
When I cook like this, I usually listen to something Brian wouldn’t choose. Right now it’s The Barn. It isn’t light, and it isn’t meant to be. It’s difficult history, well written. I heard the author interviewed and knew I had to listen. Some seasons call for comfort. Others call for paying attention.
Everything we need is here. Groceries in the refrigerator. Extra water on hand. Generators ready if the power goes out. Perspective intact.
We’ll get through this storm. And we’ll make something of it.
Because storms—like empty weekends and unscheduled days—strip things back to what matters. Food on the stove. A fire going. Something worth freezing for later. They create the conditions where ideas show up without being forced.
This storm might be an inconvenience. Or it might be a rehearsal.
Menus get tested. Freezers get stocked. Confidence builds. When the roads clear and the invitations go out, the work will already be done. All that will be left is setting the table and opening the door.
