I was wrong about winter

Notes on my Scandinavian New York January.

When I was little, I loved summer.

And I was so dramatic about it.

I was dramatic to the point that loving summer meant loathing winter, regardless of what anyone tried to convince me. Christmastime would come and I’d relish in the excitement of the season and the magic of the holidays, but when January arrived, my life was over.

I grew up in Pennsylvania and hated the cold. I hated looking outside our kitchen windows at dinnertime to a pitch black sky. I hated how dry my bare legs felt under my wool school skirt. I hated skiing and couldn’t understand how anyone found fleeing down a mountain with cold wind whipping in your face under 16 layers of clothing to be fun. To my childhood and adolescent self, winter was a time of melancholy. I never wanted to get out of bed. I never felt warm enough.

As I got older, I slowly shed this juvenile pronouncement, realizing with each passing year that it’s quite dramatic to hate an entire season when every day on this Earth is such a gift. (!) I decided that if I was going to live on the East Coast for the rest of my life, I’d have to do something about those 3 months that I typically dreaded. This year, I finally embraced winter for what it is.

Winter means repetition. Winter means introspection. Winter means patience. Winter still means coldness and darkness and all those things I hated as a kid—but I see them differently now.

In American culture, we’ve been impressed that this season is not meant for us to enjoy. We associate winter with seasonal depression and suffering through an environment that’s a conduit for distress. In Scandinavian culture, however, winter is embraced. Winter is a time for gathering with loved ones, spending time outside and enjoying(!!!!!) the cold, eating hearty and warm foods, and creating cozy indoor atmospheres that celebrate the season. I listened to a podcast about this concept early in December, and it helped me reframe my thinking. Never one to shy away from a party, I decided that celebrating winter was something I was perfectly capable of. After the holidays this year, rather than settle into a depressive state, I set out to embrace January with a fresh perspective.

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I clothed myself in layers—thick turtlenecks and wool sweaters and shearling coats—reminding myself that my spaghetti strap tops and miniskirts would all still be there in the spring. I woke up early every morning and made strong black coffee in my French press, sitting and savoring it in my pink kitchen before bracing myself for the cold commute to work. I lovingly cooked a white wine miso braised pot roast for my friends and served it over buttery mashed potatoes that soaked up the crimson juices to palatable perfection. I baked brown butter sugar cookies that never lasted more than a few hours after coming out of the oven. I decorated chocolate cakes with shiny mascarpone frosting and homemade candied nuts that looked like jewels.

I went to the Metrograph in the middle of a snowstorm and watched a shitty movie because it was the middle of a snowstorm and no one expects you to go to the Metrograph in the middle of a snowstorm and watch a shitty movie, but I wanted to. It was magic. There was no one on Ludlow Street and everything was quiet. It felt like a New York of the past, as absurd as that sounds. No people, no cars—just snowflakes and silence. I scooped snow off the lid of a trash can on the sidewalk and made a snowball. It didn’t feel cold in my bare hands. It felt like snow days off from school as a kid. It felt like building a snowman with my brother and our neighborhood friends on Violet Terrace. It felt like my mom in the kitchen making hot chocolate from a light blue Swiss Miss packet that was probably past its expiration date. It felt like a warm memory.

On the way out of the Metrograph, I thought about how few people were in the theater and wondered if it was because the movie was bad or because it was snowing. Upon making my way back outside, I realized that it was because of the snow. I live in a walkable city with a very accessible subway system, and hardly anyone was outside enjoying the snowfall. Of course, it’s easier to stay cozy inside when snow is falling outside your window, but had I never gone outside and embraced winter, I would’ve never experienced the physical memory of packing a snowball. To be outside devoid of other New Yorkers felt wrong in a good way. It was like I’d cracked winter’s code.

Too many of us have accepted the false idea that winter isn’t meant for our enjoyment, but what I’ve realized is that it’s possible to evolve from this learned notion. Although it’s tangibly cold, winter can feel so warm. Wear layers, cook a hearty meal, go to the movies in a snowstorm, listen to music that makes you happy (or music that makes you sad. Embrace both). Gather your loved ones and keep each other warm. Make plans, and don’t cancel them because it’s too cold. Go outside. Embrace the season.

I wrote this in the past tense, but I am well aware that it’s still winter and we have a long way to go.

It’s a good thing we’re celebrating.

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Happy February! Rabbit rabbit! xxx