Growing up -mostly- in the Finger Lakes area, winter was a wonderland for those of us living in the sticks.  White Christmases were the rule when you live in the land of lake effect snow. 

One winter in particular, we lived with my grandparents not far from the west side of Owasco lake.  There was a cluster of homes, woods across the way, a farm up the road, and a long sloping hill before the main road leading back into the semblance of civilization known as Auburn. 

Back in those days, it was normal for kids to be let loose shortly after breakfast and morning chores and not see them again until lunch, and then until dusk, when it wasn't a school day.  Better we'd run ourselves ragged instead of (grand-)parental nerves.  Being in a lake and creek rich area formed by glaciers, the sledding hills were bountiful. That hill made for scary fast sledding, although we were careful to stop before the main road.  

There was a ritual bundling up, finished with the applying of mittens before we'd bounce out the door.  And out I'd go, strategically adjusting my scarf as temperature control, especially if it was a bitter cold day that required covering my mouth with it to retain some heat and protect my lungs. 

It felt like wonderland, as if jumping over a partially frozen brook, or taking a different deer path would lead to some magical realm. It helped that all the snow changed the sounds;  to my young ears, it seemed like the woods and it's creatures were holding their breath.  A favored pastime was following animal tracks.  I'd love the feeling of frosty cheeks while burning up under my coat from exertion, and seeing how far and how massive my breath looked in the winter cold.  Of course, snow would always end up in my boots, as it got deep, especially in the corn fields.  This was was the land of 'lake effect' snow, of course, and the drifts could get quite high.  It would often take wet boots or dusk to get me inside.

But once through the door I'd be anticipating hot chocolate, even as I'd de-tangle myself from snow soaked clothes. At Christmas we'd get the special santa mugs. If memory serves, my mother made them.  The picture, from Etsy, looks suspiciously like them. Cocoa never tasted so good.  Of course, a white-haired grandma made it, so it's bound to be good.

Cocoa always reminds me of those days, just like cold weather makes me want to bake, which makes me think of all the Christmas sweets we'd have, from sea foam to Sicilian specialties my Aunt Carol learned from her mother in law.  The assortment of christmas confections was overwhelming to a child's eyes.  I can't remember the names of it all but there was something to tempt everyone.

I usually don't bake too much for the holidays, but it's an urge I don't want to resist, especially after seeing some beautiful cookies that a friend who blogs at Finger Lakes Notes in her first holidailies post..  Ironically, my Christmas memories are mostly from the Finger Lakes region, whereas she's new to the area.  It's a beautiful place for the holidays, especially out in the country.  When it snows, you'd think all the Christmas landscapes on greeting cards were shot there. 

I'm suddenly feeling an urge to have a Christmas cookie decorating party. It would be a great way celebrate my new big screen TV, which should arrive on Wednesday. Coming soon - holiday movie suggestions.