When confronted with apocalyptic snowfall, citizens are often instructed to make the best of unfavorable circumstances. Lemonade metaphors abound. Because the District received upwards of seven inches of snow this past week, this is precisely the time for making the best of nature’s flogging by taking up the practice of imbibing snow.
Every city has its own frigid delicacy, so why shouldn’t Washington D.C. make a unique contribution? An exotic “shaved ice” craze has even seized the great state of Hawaii, where sweetened Japanese azuki beans adorn their ice shavings. Unfortunately, these beans tend to drift to the bottom of the cup and form an impenetrable brown crust that inspires the gag reflex. Is this nonsense food? Perhaps, but it just might be your only means of sustenance, should you ever find yourself on a vast arctic tundra with no hope of escape. Tear open a stray packet of Sweet’N Low and you’ve got yourself a fix to make the hours fly by. Jack London would be proud.
Survival tactics aside, my real question is, why pay for snow when it’s already barring your route to the bank? Let’s make D.C.’s contribution to the world of flavored water a cottage industry. Here’s how it can be done.
First of all, your favorite coffee mug, novelty beer tankard or insulated sippy cup is an absolute necessity. Tracking down virgin snow typically presents the greatest challenge, but once you’ve got that you’re halfway to the finish line. Any sort of color and flavor-enhancing substance will do, from Kool-Aid to Crystal Light to cocoa powder. The more intrepid alchemist might attempt “snow cr?me.” Simply blend one cup of milk (or whipped cream for a more robust texture), half a cup of sugar, and a touch of vanilla extract. Taste, revel, shiver.
It’s a very easy process, but it can go terribly awry, as with my last experience with snow concoctions two years ago. A 14-inch accumulation of crystalline delectability on Christmas Day prompted a late night empirical session at my friend Joe’s house. Because the collective contents of our families’ pantries amounted only to a jumble of Jello packets, we were forced to violate several rules of common sense. As it turns out, gelatin is not quite the same thing as sugar powder. After taking only a few bites we spoke for hours of lofty goals and the Native American belief in totem animal guides in a frenzied manner more characteristic of a peyote trip than casual holiday banter.
We were eventually forced to jettison the contents of our cups into the backyard as the queasiness set in. The sunrise brought accusations of foul play from Joe’s family, who postulated somehow that the red streaks across the lawn were created by a neighborhood raccoon that had been mortally wounded and had crawled to their back door for sanctuary in its death throes. They spent over 45 minutes searching for the grisly remains; we were too ill to set their minds at ease.
If you hurry, you might still manage to sniff out the one patch of uncorrupted snow on Georgetown’s campus, but this feat alone is no guarantee of success. Avoid gelatin, but don’t fear creativity. Maximize your limited resources.
