Here's a view from our window during today's little storm. It's the better kind of snow: it looks really pretty coming down but it doesn't mess up the streets enough to make driving risky.
To celebrate the weather, I baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, a snowy-day tradition around here. There's also cornbread in the oven and a too-large pot of corn chowder simmering on the stove (I was in the mood for corn).
I tend too cook too much food when I'm nervous, which is my state of mind today. As just about everyone and his uncle knows, before Christmas, my husband was offered the Job of His Dreams. But we've been waiting for the offer letter for two months. An offer contains such trivial details as salary, benefits, a research budget, and other perks. So we waited and speculated. We even wondered, sometimes, if the whole thing was a hoax. A friend of ours, who crafts these letters for another local university, told us that she routinely sends out her offer letters a day or two after the job offer is made. She couldn't figure out why it was taking so long. "Handmade paper, perhaps?" I suggested. "It can take a while to dry." She said hers are delivered via email.
But finally, today, the offer letter was delivered by courier. I had to miss my gym class in case he showed up then. By now my wild imagination was expecting a coach and four steeds, a fairy godmother handing it off, and confetti in the air. So the scruffy-looking courier guy was a tiny bit of a let-down.
The big fat envelope is sitting on the table, looking important. Holding keys to our futures, in fact. I've been waiting for hours for the Professor to arrive home from class to open it.
Sitting next to it on the table is a slippery gift bag holding a bottle of good French burgundy, a present from the dean. The bottle arrived with the packet — a surprise.
Our friend at the other university says she never sends liquor with offer letters and that no part of our experience has been "normal," in her opinion.
I wonder if the burgundy is in atonement because the offer process took so long, or if we're supposed to drink the whole thing before we read the offer, so it all looks rosy and twinkly.
I will keep you posted. But with cookies, cornbread, homemade soup, and an offer letter on the table, life could be a whole lot worse. But I wonder if there is anything left around here to cook.