The Persistent Michigan Winter of Firsts

Matt and I ran a 5k yesterday.  I'd signed us up for it in the midst of yet another weekend of altered Bucket List plans due to an downpour of another eight inches of light fluffy flakes and dropping temperatures.  It was an unprecedented warm winter, with average highs 30% above "normal," but the temperamental MI Winter Powers made up for it with 23% more precipitation.  Which it divied up with torturous teasing.  We went from sunny sixties to highs in the teens and ten inches expected over less than 36 hours and back again four different times over the course of six weeks or so.  (The bulk of it in March.  Also known as the beginning of spring in most reasonable places.) So, at the time, I'd just gotten home from seeing my life flash before my eyes a half dozen times as I creeped down a treacherous M-20 in yet another snow storm, and I thought, "I'll sign us up for a run on a beautiful, warm, spring day. That'll give us something to look forward to!"

It was thirty-seven degrees when we left the house at 7:40am yesterday to head toward the race.  On the last day in April.

Why.

Do people.

Live here?

Now, you guys should know something.  I love snow. I've loved snow my whole life.  I grew up with a dad who is obsessed with the stuff.  I've been snow skiing since I was three.  I'm no stranger to snow...  For a Southerner.  So in December, it was all "this is really not so bad. Ya'll gotta suck it up up here." How cocky I was. How sweet and innocently Southern of me. The MI Winter Powers That Be looked down on my sweet, ignorant, sunny and warm Southern perspective and smiled maliciously.  And then dumped a whole heap of wintery firsts on me.

It's kind of intense out there right now. Hard to believe everything was bare four hours ago. #MIwinter #snowstorm

A video posted by HC (@h_cortright) on Feb 24, 2016 at 1:19pm PST

One was driving the aforementioned 30 miles home from work in a snow storm.  By the time I arrived to our neighborhood, there was about four inches of heavy, wet snow on our street (which is heavily populated with stop signs, I might add).  As well as an impatient teenager driving uncomfortably close behind me.  His impatience was not deterred by the alarming amount of sliding my little Toyota was doing at every stop.

If the snow were not coming down in such heavy flurries, I probably would have rolled down my window to scream at him "YOUNG SIR, DO YOU NOT SEE MY GEORGIA TAGS?"

Evidently he does not quite grasp the ineptitude of Southern drivers in inclement weather.  Bless his little heart.

Although, I could easily argue he's from Central Michigan. And doesn't quite grasp much behind the wheel anyway.  But that's another topic for another time.

Another first was shoveling snow off of our driveway.

My first ever snow-shovel-the-driveway experience took just under an hour. Another ✔️ on my #mibucketlist for this #SCGirl s #1stMIWinter!

A photo posted by HC (@h_cortright) on Dec 29, 2015 at 1:55pm PST

And, to be honest, I didn't know what everyone was complaining about.  Granted, our driveway is only about fifteen feet long, so it's not a whole lot, but between the two of us, it only takes about forty minutes, and it's a great workout.  And our neighborhood rarely gets plowed by the city, (the 1st snowfall was one of those rarities) so no worries about shoveling the drifts from that.  Until one of the two times they did.

Directly after an overnight snow storm that didn't stop until the wee hours of the morning, I had no issues driving home from work - the city had kindly plowed the whole highway and I got home in a respectable 45 minutes.  Or, rather, I got to our street in a respectable 45 minutes.

Pause for effect.

The tracks you see are from my husband leaving a couple hours earlier.  

Yea. I'm THAT person, that gets stuck on the drift from the neighborhood snowplow and blocks the whole street.

Luckily, I experienced a rare moment of Central Michigander neighborliness, and some gentlemen who had gone home for lunch helped teach me how to get out of a jam like that.  Which was touching, and it was a moment I really needed at the time.

Right now, my hometown in the Carolinas is hitting highs of 80+ on a regular basis.  It's been Spring since early March down there.  Summer is about three weeks away.  The lakes and beaches are crowded, families are biking, church groups are hiking, and neighborhoods are firing up the grill.

Up here, it just finished snowing, and hasn't quite figured out that it's not supposed to be winter anymore. And I still haven't been able to wear flip-flops.  I know you Yankees don't quite get that, but it's MAY AND I HAVE NOT WORN FLIP FLOPS YET. I cannot explain to you how frustrating that is!!

Michigan is a beautiful state.  But it's very cold.  And I suppose the point to this particular post through these Michigan Winter firsts, is that although I'm still glad that I get to experience the wintry culture of my husband's upbringing, I am also quite homesick for the South.  And very impatient for winter to be over.

I hear thats the mark of a true Michigander... Maybe it's time to take on those biscuits...

Are there some other Michigan winter firsts I should experience for next year? Comment and tell me!

(Puhn-Chkee): P-A-C-Z-K-I

Most people don't know that my husband is one-quarter Japanese.  His mom's mom was born and raised in Japan, and taught her daughter all kinds of delicious Japanese recipes.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my mother-in-law's cooking is the only food I've really enjoyed up here thus far.  To be fair, she's a spectacular cook, and puts an enormous amount of effort and love into each of her elaborate, multi-faceted meals, so reaching the caliber of her cooking is kind of a tall order (I'm sincerely not trying to suck up, it just happens to be a plus that it's true and may or may not flatter my MIL). But as of this moment in time, Michigan food outside of my in-law's home has consisted of a lot of salt and sour cream (bleh), without much else as far as seasonings and condiments go (aside from the time I was served mozzarella sticks with Ranch dressing - that was weird). There has yet been but one exception to my culinary adventures in the past few months, and that lies in a seasonal pastry.

And this is where the other almost three-quarters of my husband's heritage comes in - Polish.  As it turns out, a significant portion of Michigan is made up of Polish-American ancestry.  It becomes evident at a certain time of year, when the smell of confections hits every bakery in the state, and the Meijers are flooded with stacks of little red and white boxes, with a myriad of letters on the side that may have been picked at random through a game of the official unofficial sport of Michigan, and don't seem to actually make up a full, sensible word - Paczkis. P-A with a squiggly underneath- C-Z-K-I.

Say it with me now - Puhn. Chkee.

No, I'm not trying to set you up to sound like an idiot next time you have a conversation with a Michigander about Polish pastries, which is obviously a common topic at the water cooler.  That's really how you say it.  Somewhere in between Poo and Punch, with a Key on the end.  Purse those lips like you're kissing Aunt Gerta.  Puhn-Chkee.  There ya go.


And guys, Paczkis are a really big deal.

Chi Chi, get the #Pączki. pic.twitter.com/8eRMFSM2DD

— Nicole Szymczak (@nicsimzak) February 9, 2016

Like, Clemson vs. Carolina big.  Summer is here big.  Oh my god they're forecasting an inch of snow and Publix is out of bread big.  Making enemies because you described it to "foreigners" as a jelly-filled doughnut big.  So I'm not saying it's a doughnut.  Instead, I will say that it is "a small, fried cake of dough, generally formed in a flattened sphere-like fashion, filled with a fruit-flavored gelatin or custard."  There. Now I won't get strung up and beaten with egg noodles.

It's like Christmas with cholesterol! #paczki #paczkiday pic.twitter.com/PzENreoQf3

— Jake Neher (@GJNeher) February 9, 2016

Michigander legend has it that the Paczki originated when bakeries in Poland were trying to get rid of their perishable, too-rich-for-lent ingredients before Lent, because, traditionally, they were devout Catholics, and gave up sweets (and meat, hence the popularity of fish frys) until Easter.  So, they just dump all of their leftover eggs, sugar, flour, yeast, fat, and milk into a mix and fry it, and the result is a super rich, super heavy, slightly chewy, insanely delicious pastry.  It's then poked and filled with a sugar-drenched jam or custard, and distributed to the masses to get in one last sugar fix bender before fasting for six weeks.  And they are only available one time a year - the day (or week) before Ash Wednesday. Thus, in Michigan, "Paczki Day" and "Fat Tuesday" are one in the same, interchangeable phrases. (Although in Poland, it is actually "Fat Thursday." See the purist debate on Twitter.)

When I told Matt we had to go get Paczkis (because eating them will obviously help me remember how to spell them), he initially said we had to "get there early."  I, of course, am thinking, "ok, so, like, 8?"

Getting Paczkis on Fat Tuesday is an early morning event.  For us, it was 5am.  And it was snowing.

Nope.

Apparently, on Paczki Day, some bakeries open as early as 3am.  Some close their doors to the public and will only let you in if you've placed an order ahead of time.  The majority are out of pastries by 8am.  Matt's dad used to leave their house at 4am and sometimes stand in line for almost an hour to get their two dozen and be home in time for breakfast.  Like I said, these Paczkis are a serious business.

Thankfully, my husband is merciful (and sleeps like the dead), so we awoke at a leisurely 5am to heavily falling snow (our yard has been bare for weeks) and drove the 30 mins to Krzysiak's (I have no idea how to pronounce it - it took four attempts just to spell it correctly), where we stood in line for about 20 minutes to get our assorted dozen.  Other people in line were commenting on how tame it was this year, and grumbling that people could come in "first come, first serve." ("I thought you had to order ahead of time!")

Krzysiak's paczkis at 5:45am.  According to their Facebook page, these were full when they opened this morning only 45 minutes before our arrival, in addition to the hundred something boxes ready for pre-placed orders.

Guys, they had already almost run out.  Serious. Business.

Additional Polish goodies they offer, like egg noodles and pierogies, heavy potato-filled pasta shells.

That poor bakery was so busy the boxes were spotted with powdered sugar and jelly.
Which I in turn got all over my lap.

We drove back, the Paczkis happily awaiting consumption on my powdered sugar drenched lap, and discussing how glad we are that we got there in time.  Then, once arriving back home, sat down to coffee and a box of assorted Paczkis and began the guessing game of which pastry enveloped which sweet, gooey filling.

They may all be covered in strawberry jelly, but don't let that fool you. You have to inspect the hole they use to inject the jelly to get a pretty solid (but not certain) idea of what's inside. We got lemon, custard, strawberry, blueberry, and cherry.

I'm slowly learning that, much like the weather, and when the next snow plow will come by, not really knowing what's coming is all a part of the fun of living in Michigan.  It's a constant adventure.

Matt says this happens in almost every batch. Bakeries are in such a hurry to meet demand that a pastry just slips through the cracks and gets no filling.  He calls them "duds." But they're still awesome.

Now, is this sucker Strawberry, Cherry, or is that jam from another Paczki?

Double-check me - did I spell Paczki right every time??

What Michigander food should I try next?

To follow my #MIBucketList adventure, suscribe at the bottom of this page.

The Official Unofficial Outdoor Sport of MI (TUT16)

Michiganders will tell you left and right that it's the perfect state for people who love the outdoors.

My reaction when Matt and I started this list was that we'd have to complete the whole thing in the five months that we wouldn't be snowed in.  What kind of outdoors could possibly be enjoyed when it's too cold to actually DO anything the majority of the year??

What I'm beginning to understand is that Michiganders have their own definition of "outdoor sports."

Matt's sister and boyfriend are pursuing their medical careers a bit further north of us, near a small town known to be highly popular for it's population of senior citizens, as well as it's ice fishing.

Yea, I thought it was a myth too, but evidently it's really a thing.  People actually sit on literal feet of frozen water and stuck a baited string in a drilled hole to catch dinner.

What's even a step beyond that stranger danger? They have an actual festival to celebrate the absurd activity.

So we wandered up to their neck of the woods a couple weekends ago to see what all this ice fishing business was about during Tip Up Town, the annual event that attracts attendees from all over the state.  I was excited to learn more about the "outdoor sports" of Michigan.

Before we embarked on this grand adventure to trudge on a frozen lake and learn about ice fishing, Matt's relatives deeply intimidated and concerned me, because up here, when you go outside for an extended period of time and there's snow on the ground, extensive undergarments become a comfortable commodity.  But when you start talking about venturing out onto a frozen lake - then it gets serious.  Long underwear, snow pants, multiple pairs of socks, and at least six other layers the South likes to joke about but if you ever required it, they'd probably determine "safety indoors." It's about a two-hour conversation up here before risking the elements while you pile on garment after garment.  It's possible I exaggerate that length of time because I was sweating from both overheating in my seven layers as well as nerves that I was going to be that stupid Southern girl Matt used to be married to that froze to death because she didn't take the nice Michigander's advice.

Once we finally arrived, we spent about twenty minutes hiking through the snowy festival, a square half block of a couple rides, an ice slide and food trucks, populated by maybe fifty people, then I took my first step on ice.

The lake was beautiful.  A wide expanse of white, topped with a wispy blue sky, the already setting sun sparkling off of everything. Snowmobiles, trucks, even a mobile home, dotted the ice, blanketed with a couple inches of fluffy snow.  I literally would not have known it was a lake.

Somewhere in the distance, a couple tents and huts were propped up, presumedly sheltering some dedicated ice fishers, but for the most part, it was snowmobiles racing across the horizon.

And I wish I had more to tell you about ice-fishing. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps educational displays on the process of ice fishing, or someone actually explaining what a tip-up is, or people kindly attempting to sell their frozen-solid catch in a slightly Canadian vernacular... but, as it turns out, events like this are not really so much about the whole fishing in the ice thing.

Apparently, it's about drinking.

My companions allowed me a moment to oh and ah in marvel of standing on a foot of solid naturally-frozen ice-lake, before trudging on to the beer tent, where we camped out for the next two and a half hours, dancing, talking, taking goofy photos, and enjoying ourselves.  We emerged for another twenty minutes of play time on the lake, during which I made snow angels with a stranger, and Matt wrestled in the snow with his sister's boyfriend.

And that was it.  Two hundred and ten minutes of exploring the great outdoor sport of ice fishing - and I think I got the gist of it. It's not about fish at all. It's about hanging out in a tent with your friends, trying not to freeze to death, and drinking beer.

That's the official unofficial "outdoor sport" of Michigan.  Beer.

Created with flickr slideshow.

What else should I put on my Michigan Bucket List?

MI Bucket List: A This Is My Shot Series

Matt finally left command last May. The nightmare finally ended.  Well, it turned into a much bigger, scarier nightmare that deeply angered me to my very core due to the dangerously entitled generation Matt led, but all of those details are now behind us, and there they shall stay.  The point is, that nightmare, too, came to a finale late last July, and we finally got those blessed orders to leave Fort Gordon.

A very quick, dramatic, and eventful six months passed, during which I moved out of the South for the very first time in my life, to join Matt's family and thick-blooded brethren in the great, mysterious state of Michigan.

I'd never known anyone from Michigan before I met Matt a fateful three and a half years ago.  As a born and raised Southerner, the states of the midwest held little glamour to me, so all I'd ever absorbed prior to that point are - "It has lakes."  Granted, I'm known to get lost taking a wrong turn to the grocery store I've been visiting for two years, so I'd never claim geography to be my strong suit. I'd been dating my now-husband for less than a year when regular cable started to offer Michigan's last stand to survive the flunk of American auto in the early-2000's by targeting none other than tourism.

I remember watching those commercials with skepticism and a look of split pea soup on my face - "You've got to be kidding me. Why on God's Green Earth would anyone ever go to Michigan? Willingly?!"

Apparently I would.

I got the same response from several co-workers when I turned in my notice.  Ironically, the most common culprit to spout the phrase - former Michiganders. "WHY would you go there?"  The owner and CEO of my prior employer, who is also a Detroit-native, expanded further when I told him my husband missed his home state:

"Which part? The awful weather, the corrupt politics, or the terrible condition of the roads?"

My fellow Southerners responded with a brilliant observation: "It's cold there."

Well-spotted.

After all of that encouragement, you can imagine how excited I was to pack up our life and drive 900 miles to my new home in Michigan.

BUT, I'm a survivor. I learned a little over a year into Matt's time in command that I have to learn to make the best of each situation and find the joy, happiness, adventure.

So, with the help of my own in-house expert, I formulated a Bucket List - an itemized list of things I'd like to accomplish in Michigan.  And, because I believe in documentation, I will be sharing my journey as a South Carolina Girl in surviving this ferocious Yankee state, in the hopes that in the very least, I may help Michiganders laugh at my fate, and Carolinians to affirm their aversion to the North.

1. Visit and hike the Sleeping Bear Dunes.
2. Not just taste, but experience, a fresh fish fry.
3. Go snowmobiling for the first, and undoubtedly last, time ever.
4. Make an attempt to see - and photograph - the Northern Lights.
5. Learn how to make Michigan Four Berry Pie.
6. Learn how to make Southern Biscuits. (Because I'm #SCProud no matter where I am, dammit.)
7. Visit Mackinac Island, eat fudge.
8. Try a Coney Dog. (Which apparently is not exclusive to NY.)
9. Visit Frankenmouth/ Bronner's.  Eat Bavarian Chicken Dinner.
10. See the Tulip Festival in Holland.
11. See the Cherry Festival in Traverse City, and eat cherries until I'm sick.
12. Figure out what all this "Faygo" nonsense is about.
13. Learn if Euchre truly exists, and play it (if it is, in fact, not a myth.)
14. Eat fresh Paczki (and memorize how to spell it).
15. Use my hand to describe where we live. (Correctly.)
16. Experience and document a true Michigan Autumn.
17. Visit Silver Lake Park.
18. Snow shovel.
19. Walk on a solidly frozen lake.
20. See a show at the Fox Theater.

Michiganders and MI enthusiasts (assuming those exist), tell me - what have I missed?