The first snow of a New England winter was always exciting, but snow at Christmas was exhilarating. Snow made me want hot chocolate and marshmallows. It helped me believe in Santa Claus. It brought time off from school, and it gave us the chance to go outside to build snowmen, snow forts, and snow weapons. One year, when I was about ten years old, I stood in our kitchen on East Center Street in Wallingford, Connecticut and taunted my younger brother (who was playing in the back yard) through the window until he threw an icy snowball so hard it broke the glass. I was that annoying.
And we all ate snow. My children carried on the tradition. Did it have a flavor? I don’t remember. Maybe it was the lovely sensation of that cold white fluff melting down the back of the throat that led to soaking wet mittens and frequent trips inside to visit the bathroom. I haven’t eaten snow for years. Maybe it’s time to try again.