If It Leads To Pho, Let It Snow

When the weather outside is frightful
Vietnamese food can be so delightful.

OK, the writers of "Let It Snow" probably never tasted Vietnamese food.  But Wanya Morris and Brian McKnight, I am sure, comforted themselves with their favorite foods on cold, stormy nights.

That is, of course, unless their culinary pleasures weren't available.  Depending on where they lived, they might not have had access to Vietnamese, Chinese, Mexican or whatever foods because the weather was too frightful for the delivery people.  After all, for how little they make (without benefits), who has the right to demand that they complete their appointed rounds through rain, snow, sleet or hail?

Such a dilemma confronted Philip Marciniak.  On a normal day, he makes his rounds as an appliance repairman on electric cargo bike.  His business includes, not surprisingly, electric bikes.

On Monday, roads in his hometown of Saanich, British Columbia were rendered impassible by a heavy snowfall.  And Marciniak really, really wanted his Vietnamese food. 

So what did he do?  He mounted a snowplow to his bike and soon he was enjoying his pho.

OK, so he didn't have his "light bulb moment" when he hankered for Ca Kho To.  He'd been working on his electric bike-plow prototype for at least a year before using it to retrieve his Asian treats.

While he doesn't think his contraption will replace truck-driven plows, he plans to use his bike-plow to get around when the weather is frightful. He jokes, however, that he might plow on request--as long as the right meal awaits.

If plowing a path leads to Pho

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

A Ride Ahead Of A Storm

 The "once in a generation" weather events are happening, well, more than once in a generation.  

Such an event was predicted for last night and today.  The weather, according to forecasters, would take twists and turns that would cause a script to be rejected as too unbelievable. The day started with temperatures just above freezing.  Then the rain came:  a few drops falling as I returned to my apartment turned into downpours accompanied by high winds.  The temperature rose to springlike levels, but are expected to fall enough to give us the coldest Christmas Eve and Christmas in, well, a generation.

Now, I don't mind riding in rain or wind, or in changing temperatures.  But the predicted combination is not my idea of a backdrop for a good ride.  I think the only one in my orbit who likes this weather is Marlee because it keeps me home with her!

Anyway, I spent about two and a half hours on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  Most of our ride rimmed the East River shorelines of Queens and Brooklyn.  As familiar as it all was, I enjoyed it and, more important, noticed something that I missed because I took a turn I wouldn't normally take.

Along the Greenpoint waterfront is the WNYC Transmitter Park, from which our local public radio stations (on AM and FM) sends out the programs that are often the soundtrack when I'm home.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see a mural dedicated to Black Americans who've been killed by police officers.  I think I pay a bit more attention to such things than most White Americans.  Still, I was astounded and, later, ashamed that I didn't recognize many of the names.  What was more disturbing was the knowledge that, as the creators of the murals acknowledge, the "list" is far from complete.

About twenty meters to the right of the BLM mural (or to the mural's left) is another that couldn't be more different.  

Perhaps that is the point:  The woman in the mural looks as White as the paint in her face.   She is as languid as the Sandra Bland, Eric Garner and others in the BLM mural were tense and fearful when they were confronted by constables.  

Oh, and she is lounging on what appears to be a Spring day. I was looking at her, and the BLM mural, on the second day of Winter, as a "once in a generation" storm was approaching.

Before Auld Lang Syne

 The Winter Solstice came yesterday, just after sunset. 

  

Robert Burns is best known for "Auld Lang Syne," traditionally sung at the stroke of midnight in the Anglophone world.  Here the Scottish poet beautifully conveys the mood at the beginning of this season:

Winter:  A Dirge

The wintry west extends his blast,
   And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
   The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
   And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
   And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
   The joyless winter-day
Let others fear, to me more dear
   Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
   My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
   Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme
   These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,
   Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
   This one request of mine.—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
   Assist me to resign.

This poem is in the public domain.