Let's Talk About...Ice

Ok. Let's talk a little bit about ice. Ice? Yes, ice.

Ice is one of those love 'em/hate 'em items that we take for granted. Here is what I mean.

We love our ice. We love it in our summertime lemonade and iced tea, in our coolers, in a bag held against a sprain. If you have ever had a party, you understand the cry of "Did you get ice?" Followed by "Go back and get another bag!"

If you have ever traveled to Europe, you know that ice is just not a thing there. There will be no ice in your Diet Coke (or "Coke Light"), no ice in your water (and often, no plain water) and if you ask for ice, you will be greeted with that eyeroll-filled "It's an American again" look of disdain, followed by one cube 15 minutes later. I know there are freezers in Europe, so I just don't get it.

We just can't get enough ice here. As a matter of fact, when I go to Café Blue, they automatically bring me a cup of ice in addition to whatever I am drinking. Some people order a side of mayonnaise. I order a side of ice. I love ice.

Until winter rolls around.

Then ice, the beloved cooler of drinks and headaches, becomes the bane of our collective existence. At times, it is everywhere. And you really can't walk on it, can't drive in it, can't get it off your windshield, and you can't get it out of your bones come February.

And ice is sneaky. I don't like sneaky.

When we first moved here from sunny-year-round-California, I remember driving the babysitter home. It was a cold January night. After dropping her off, I was on my way back home, enjoying a Billy Joel tune on the radio. Seriously, it was Billy Joel.

I remember I was actually listening to the words of "New York State of Mind" for a change as I approached the stop sign at Niwot Road on 63rd Street. I also remember thinking the road looked very wet and glistened, so, smart girl, I braked a little early.

Nothing happened. I mean nothing that the brakes normally do happened. Like stopping the car. I just went sideways, and I couldn't do anything about it. I thought, "Do you turn the wheel toward the skid or away from the skid?" I tried both. Neither way worked. I ended up in a ditch about one foot from a telephone pole.

It was not just ice, but that demon black ice, lurking on roads, disguised as water just waiting to pick a newbie like me off the road.

Two years ago, my family came here for Thanksgiving. Twelve inches of snow fell the night before. There were about 12 of us all cooking, playing games, talking and creating that kind of Thanksgiving mayhem we all enjoy. My sister and brother went outside to take photos of the beautiful thick snow. They got down to the foot of the driveway. My sister lifted her camera to capture a particularly stunning angle of the snow.

Sure enough, Whump! She slips on the ice lurking under the snow and comes crashing down on her arm which snapped like a twig. You know how they say cracking ice sounds like bones cracking? Well, it goes the other way around, too. After we inched our way through the snow and ice to the hospital, and with her arm in a sling, she still managed to make an incredible apple pie.

Ice can be both a godsend and a sneaky devil.

Let's not forget those other forms of ice. Like those icy stares you give your husband when he asks, "Where's the scissors?" And treats like Hawaiian shaved ice or Italian ice. Or the singer Ice Cube. Or beautiful glaciers of Arctic ice.

For me, the best ice is the kind in my glass.