Snow, through the lens of food

and a story from the chairlift

I was riding the chairlift at our local ski hill the other day when the man next to me asked, after lots of chit chat, what I did for a living. When I told him I was a food writer, he asked if that meant I knew all the best restaurants? Not really, I said as we floated up the hill, our skis dangling beneath us. I’m more interested in life through the lens of food, I tried to explain. We were side by side moving through the snow-topped pines. I couldn’t see his face under his helmet and goggles, but I knew he was scrunching his nose, confused. I looked at the snow below coated in a slick of ice and said that this kind of snow, for example, is called crème brûlée. I think I know what you mean, he said as we lifted the bar at the top of the hill. Sort of.

Let me explain.

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It’s been snowing the last few days. At first it came down like tiny spears, piercing your cheeks with horizontal force. The next day it was heavy flakes, falling straight down against the pale blue sky. Today the snowflakes float like feathers after a pillow fight, gently falling to the ground with a sigh. I’m looking at them through the kitchen window, like the view from inside a shaken snow globe.

On the pale blue-sky day, I went cross-country skiing with my sister-in-law and two dogs. My yellow lab carried a frozen tennis ball in her mouth and dropped it, again and again, between my skis. I slipped over it, following along in the path set before me.

The flat path that cuts through the alders and evergreens is safe and smooth, but eventually - over the small wooden bridge and through the frozen bog flooded by tenacious beavers - it slopes downwards and takes a sharp turn to the left. I was wobbly on those skis; they felt like they’d been greased in butter. My heels were loose, unlike downhill ski boots that click in safe and secure.

I didn’t grow up cross country skiing. I’m convinced these skills are baked in when you’re young. I slid forward down the hill, following the tracks set before me. The snow was hard on either side, crunchy. This happens when the weather warms just long enough to thaw the surface of the snow, then the temperature drops and it freezes again, leaving a frozen crust on top. I call it crème brûlée snow.

Crème brûlée is made by whisking egg yolks, sugar, cream and vanilla together then baking the mixture, which is now called a custard, until set. The custard is then chilled in the fridge for several hours. When ready to serve, sugar is sprinkled over top, then the tops are scorched either with a torch or by sliding under the broiler until the sugar has darkened and caramelized (or brûléed) into a thin, hard layer. It’s so satisfying to crack a spoon through the surface of the sugar. A tiny breaking of glass, a shattering, and then the thick, smooth cream underneath.

I wobbled down the hill on my cross country skis, locked into the tracks set in front of me. I tried to balance my poles at my side, but they only scraped against the snow. And then, as the turn veered left, I kept going straight. My sister-in-law turned back to watch as I laughed, arms flapping like a bird, then spectacularly crashed and cracked through the hard surface to the soft snow below.

PS- Here’s a link explaining the difference between downhill skiing and cross country, for anyone in need.