We might just starve, part two

Awhile back, I told ya’ll about our annual get-together with my in-laws and my son and daughter-in-law in the mountains. We bring enough food to last for two weeks even though the trip only lasts three days because, after all, we might starve.

There is a rumor of snow in Middle Tennessee tonight. The weather service is calling for “significant accumulation.” Normally, the level of frenzied discussion of snow is in direct correlation to the lack of actual snowfall we receive. But this does not keep us from engaging in sheer panic and food hoarding.

So today I went to the Publix just to get a few things. Some mushrooms and a head of lettuce. But I could feel the fear of my fellow shoppers as I wheeled my buggy toward the meat section. There might be snow. Significant accumulation. The bread was almost gone. I pick up a loaf.

Pork chops. I could probably use some pork chops. Just in case. And chicken. Chicken is always good. Fruit. Fresh fruit. Is scurvy still around? It could be. Who knows how long we’ll be trapped in the house? I pick up some tangerines and apples.

Breakfast. Do I have enough for breakfast if we’re snowed in for a week? Sausage. I must have sausage. And Little Smokies, an essential survival tool during a blizzard. Blizzard? What exactly does “significant accumulation” mean?

I pick up a bag of biscuits, too. And some spaghetti. And some potatoes. Starch. We’re going to need a lot of starch if we’re going to survive this. And milk. My God, I’ve forgotten the milk. I barely make it to the dairy case in time. The threat of calcium deficiency weighs heavily on my mind. I don’t even drink milk. But I might have to start.

The last real threat to our survival occurred only a few weeks ago. Forecasters at the television stations were warning of dire consequences if the citizenry was not completely prepared for a long confinement to our homes.

We spent an anxious night, listening for the snapping of large tree branches and the sound of our roof caving in from the weight of the anticipated snow. And we woke up to this. I don’t think you could actually measure the depth of the snow with a pica pole.

However. HOWEVER. We were prepared. I had laid in supplies for this storm, too. We Southerners are alert and ready for every weather emergency. But we are particularly attuned to the possibility of snow, with all the precarious dangers it brings.  There might be sliding. There might be swerving. You could fall down the steps and break your leg!  Attending school, of course, is out of the question. Work is not a possibility either.

So I am ready. The protection of my family is my foremost concern. After all, we might just starve.

The emergency Mayhews

There are two types of people in the world. There are the thoughtful, practical people who replace things before they break. They don’t wait until their car dies on the side of the interstate before they contemplate a new-car purchase. They don’t wait until the washing machine give up the ghost with wet clothes in it before acquiring a new one.

And then there are the emergency people. They do wait until the freezer stops working with $568 worth of frozen food in it before rushing to Sears for another one. And they wait until snow is predicted – snow that will crush the canvas top of the gazebo on the deck – before taking it down in sub-zero temperatures.

I am making fondue with olive-oil baked croutons and roasted broccoli and cauliflower when I hear the clatter of the ladder coming up from the garage. Actually, I bought the fondue at Trader Joe’s for an unbelievable $5.99, but that’s a minor detail.  “Noah!” yells Mark. “I need your help!” It is completely dark outside and conditions for frost bite are ideal. It is time to take down the canvas from the gazebo.

It is not that this happens once in a blue moon. It happens every year. We are the emergency Mayhews. I used to be part of the emergency crew, but happily Noah is now of age where he has taken my spot. What we will do when Noah goes off to college I don’t even want to contemplate. But they accomplished the task in the frigid cold, bringing the canvas gazebo top and lawn chair pads (of course, we hadn’t put those away, either) into the house and plopping them unceremoniously in the dining room.

So, here’s the great thing about fondue. It’s the ultimate communal meal and you do not need a fondue pot and those funny little forks to serve it. In fact, I am actively opposed to fondue pots or any other kitchen contraptions that only serve one purpose.

Just take some crusty rustic bread from the Publix, splash it with some olive oil and sprinkle it with salt. Toast it in the oven at 400 degrees for about 10 to 15 minutes. Roast some broccoli and cauliflower florets, also with olive oil and salt,  in the oven at the same temperature for another 15 minutes. Take the fondue out of the package and melt it in any old ugly pot you have until it’s bubbly. That’s it!

Who can object to a supper that involves oil-soaked bread and melted cheese?

The good news here is that they’ve already called off school for tomorrow. We cancel school if there’s a single snowflake within 300 miles of Brentwood. If it actually does snow the emergency Mayhews will look like geniuses. Instead of standing under the gazebo top with a push broom and knocking off the snow (which we have done on more than on occasion, I’m sorry to admit), we will be happily sleeping in while we get a rare, glittery, beautiful, white taste of winter.