Whoa! What happened to us last Friday? Talk about cranky. Mother Nature had some kind of a gnarly twist in her knickers to pull a stunt like that. Thirteen inches of snow, would you believe? It was so sticky its rime ice adhered to our windows and walls like Velcro, leaving us blindsided by the vehemence of its icy fury and bombarding our homes like teeny tiny whirligigs gone amok.

Did we Austin folks really need a jolt like that? Like we had to be reminded we are Minnesotans? We know it. We can’t forget it. We are stubborn, swarthy souls who refuse to admit that our weather is wonky. It is true that we complain about it among ourselves, but then instantly button up our cracked, chapped lips when someone from … say … Hawaii comes into the room. What do they know, anyway? Besides, we’d take our lutefisk any old day over their pineapple.

But, really now, were you as taken aback by the weather’s orneriness as was I? It felt like a big lowborn bully had it out for us, reminding that it was still February even after we had been titillated and teased the day before with 60 degree temps. Bamboozled into thinking Spring had arrived, the salivating golfers began polishing up their cobwebby clubs while the eager dressers pulled on their tank tops. Then POW! We were jerked right back into the deep freeze. It was, by all accounts, a mean-spirited way to end the illusion.

The only way I can figure out this quirky winter is to believe that the good Lord sent us those unexpected sunshiny days so we’d have an early opportunity to take down our outdoor Christmas decorations; for once in our lives removing them before the tulips bloom. Let’s face it, they don’t look good as May approaches. Actually, in all the world there is nothing more dreary than a window box full of fake poinsettias, bleached by the winter sun to a dusty pale unpalatable pallor. It’s a primary decoration flaw. Nothing but nothing is less attractive than made-in-China pitiful pale pukey pink poinsettias.

Number 2 on the unacceptable Christmas-is-over-decorations-list are icicle lights. On April 13th they simply are no longer fetching. It is true that they once were glorious, but that was 100 days ago. Now their rain gutter anchors have come loose, leaving them all droopy and down in the dumps, a demoralizing sight if there ever was one for folks who are already downcast and enervated by the winter blues.

And who could be bluer than poor Mary and Joseph who are still languishing out on some front lawns? Having become acclimated to stable conditions, they do not do well in warm weather. Talk about sins. No one should ever be found mowing their grass around a manger. Sheesh! It should be Austin City Ordinance No. 1!

All this talk brings me to ask what you did when you were snowbound last Friday? With vicious winds too mean to allow even a slide down Skinner’s Hill, I’ll bet you hunkered down on the couch and watched TV. But, even that soon became unsatisfying, didn’t it? It just wasn’t enough action; didn’t fully expend your pent up energy. In fact, it caused so much restlessness that you were almost yearning for the days when you had to fight your way through ankle-deep shag carpet in order to change the channels, right??

As for me, I know that I can only go so long being cooped up before my thoughts — my desires — turn to what else, but — butter! Something in me overtakes my being and all I can do is concentrate on my taste buds. Of course I am not hungry, I just want a distraction. A delicious distraction. Last Friday all I could see were rhapsodic images of butter soaking into a muffin, a biscuit, a piece of toast. Heck, I could even envision it soaking into itself. Why not? Butter on butter? Yum!

Do you remember when we were kids and no one agonized over eating butter? We just did it. And did it guilt-free. No one argued the healthy merits of margarine over butter because there was no decent margarine. Now, every single morning I have to debate over which tub to reach for. It’s a bummer. Takes all the fun out of getting fat.

It’s like this: in this world there are authentic butter lovers … and then there is that one other guy. He can’t be from Minnesota. I won’t let him.

Butter people have three methods of applying their butter:

1. The partially committed dabbers deal only in tiny tidbits ever so gently patted here and there. You need an electron microscope to see them. It’s beyond me why they even bother. I do not have any friends in this category.

2. Generous slatherers. These folks don’t hold back. Still they stop themselves just short of going the full Monty as their consciences remain intact. I know and even like some of these folks.

3. Whole hog, unrestrained copious consumers whose daily butter allowance blocks out the sun and the moon. They don’t care. Whatever is under their butter is only meant to be a conveyance to get the butter up to their lips. And hips.

I fear I am a No. 3. Actually, I know I am. I find that frequently I cannot identify what is hidden under my butter. More and more I’m thinking that this makes me a bad person–something akin to a closet Mogan David Wine drinker. Therefore I am much happier when I can consume my butter in public where my addiction is right out there in plain sight. Besides, when you’re in a restaurant you are expected to eat everything on your plate. After all, you paid big bucks for it.

Lansing Corners Supper Club butter comes wrapped in lovely golden foil. Each foil contains one patty. Of course, in my world these are ridiculously small, no where near enough to satisfy my longings. But, it doesn’t matter. The waitress just keeps bringing more. To disguise my consumption, I roll the first empty golden foil into a small tight ball. This forms the nucleus for what’s to come. Then one-by-one I clandestinely roll the additional empty foil wrappers around this tiny core. I’ve found that this ploy can go undetected for a surprisingly long time — at least half way through the meal or until the baked potato is fully consumed.

It is only when the golden ball becomes larger than the centerpiece that I start to itch. Have the other diners noticed? If so, what must they think? I am pushed into desperate mode. My thoughts turn to the merits of joining a butter anonymous group. There is no question that this group does NOT meet at the Lansing Corners Supper Club.

I must surely have told you in one of my columns that the Japanese think we Americans smell like butter. That it squeezes unchecked out of our well greased pores. It’s something like the assault of kimchi from a Korean’s breath. I always feared my Japanese hosts could smell me coming. That there was no need for me to knock on their doors because my dairy aroma had already announced my arrival.

I struggled with this never quite understanding just what was so almighty bad about smelling like my middle name was Marigold. I suppose it didn’t help that I also dabbed a golden glob behind each ear.

It seems rather disjointed to realize that weather and butter go hand in hand. Surely they are two of life’s stumbling blocks, neither of which do I have an answer for. I only know that when the tempests howled last Friday, my craving for butter reached its peak. Unable to control myself, I made biscuits. At least I think they were biscuits. I couldn’t see what was under the butter.
Peggy Keener of Austin is the author of two books: “Potato In A Rice Bowl” and “Wondahful Mammaries.” Peggy Keener invites readers to share their memories with her by emailing maggiemamm16@gmail.com. Memories shared with Keener may be shared or referenced in subsequent editions of “Full Circle.”