It’s a chilly 22 degrees here in the Piedmont of North Carolina, with piles of leftover snow shrouding my pitiful camellias. Wrapped in a throw blanket, fuzzy slippers, and an ugly granny nightgown, I still shiver and whine about the cold. My ensemble is not the most attractive garb in my closet, but I’d wear my living room rug if it kept me warm.

Friends and relatives who live in the frigid north are a formidable group of folks who manage to shrug off unbearable temperatures. We panic in the south at the mention of flurries while our northern friends chuckle at our ineptness. I admire their rugged attitude but don’t understand people who claim they love chilly weather. It reminds me of silly teenagers at the bus stop with no jackets and wearing only t-shirts and shorts, acting like it’s summertime.

To battle the cold without shuddering at the next power bill, I stuff towels at every door entrance, load pillows and blankets on the couch, and burn scented candles. Somehow glowing lights and a simulated bear den give the illusion of warmth. I recall stories of pioneer days where bricks were heated by the hearth and placed at the foot of the bed to keep the occupants warm. That didn’t seem wise to me because I’d probably scrape my legs or stub my toe in the middle of the night.

I pondered several ideas as I sipped my third cup of hot tea. Wintry weather demands comfort food, so I got ambitious and pulled out my recipe book. My husband was elated as I baked bread, made chocolate chip cookies, roasted potatoes, and seasoned a fine cut of beef. The kitchen became stifling as I kept opening the oven door to check the food thermometer jabbed in the London Broil. Before long, I was fanning my face, wiping my brow, and shedding my sweater. It felt like a vicious menopause attack, so I went outside to cool off. Yes, without a coat over my T-shirt and leggings, like a silly kid at the bus stop. Maybe I’m more formidable than I thought.