Snowflakes the size of lottery balls are falling midmorning on a day that is not a workday, and there's just no stopping them. It is cold and blustery outside. I know this because I've just come back from crunching snow in my snow boots to get to Met Food. My parents are straight up out of butter, eggs, and dark brown sugar, and you can't bake shit without them. Our ground floor is dark and grainy like video playback, soft tissues of grey light spreading through white shutter windows, almost - almost! - reaching the kitchen counter, but just shy. The oven is creeping to three-fifty while the Sackett Street shovels of the outdoors scrape at the inevitable concrete slush. Peter Sagal of Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! is asking the questions and my mom, her back to the snow light, knitting at the counter without so much as a glance up, is answering them. I am wearing the world's greatest slippers and running butter along two baking sheets. My plan is cinnamon iced oatmeal cookies. Clearly, if you weren't busy baking on a day like this one, I sure hope someone was busy baking for you.