Earlier tonight, I roasted a chicken and assembled a kale salad with fig vinegar, sunflower seeds, and chopped rosemary and blood oranges; I made use of the extra fridge afforded by winter (the fire escape) to cool the leftovers of that earnest-lady feast before storing them. Now, from my quiet blue rooms atop an East Williamsburg hill, I’m drinking a glass of red wine and watching the city twinkle without me. It was a frustrating few days–egos flared, including my own–and if you could see me flanked by my somber little kitty at the kitchen window, you might think I was still mulling big stuff. Really, I’m just planning all the other meals I’ll cook and freeze this weekend–meat ragu, lentil soup, chile verde, cod and potato casserole–if the storm’s as bad as they say it’s going to be. It’s gotten to the point that, when meteorologists predict snow and hale, visions of furry slippers, 19th century novels, black-and-white musicals, and long-simmering stews dance before my eyes like sugarplums. They may call such weather harrowing; I call it cozy. And from there, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to glamorous.