We’re staring down winter these days, looking her right in the face. While the wind blows and the snow falls outside, signifying the start of the holiday season, my favorite season has begun inside these walls.

And it smells delicious.

It smells like onions boiling in a buttery broth. It smells like herbs and garlic sautéing on the stovetop. It smells like venison stewing, biscuits baking and green beans steaming in bacon.

Yeah. Bacon.

It’s frozen out there, which means my husband and I have begun our season of cooking. And, well, as you can tell by the whole green beans in bacon recipe, we don’t practice the low-calorie, low-fat diet like we’ve been advised.

Wait until April, when we have a good layer of meat on our bones from months of consuming heavy whipping cream in soup, coffee and a mix of brown sugar over sweet rolls, and we might consider it.

Because warmer weather will remind us about the whole swimming suit thing.

But for now, we’re starving. I mean, come on! It’s only November, and already the temperatures have dropped below zero. We’re like squirrels storing up for a long sleep, and we can’t get enough acorns.

I’m deep into my biscuit cravings, which somehow magically turn me into an under-confident, but determined version of Betty Crocker. Because when you’re a good 30-some miles from the nearest diner, bakery or gramma figure who can advise, a girl’s gotta figure it out.

Our winter eating habits are at least one part determination and one part biology. The other parts I blame on my husband’s German heritage.

Last week I came home to find the man in the middle of preparing a meal that, when complete, would add at least an extra two inches to my rear, (which will come in handy the next time I lose the battle with a sneaky patch of ice.)

He calls this miracle of a dish, an age-old recipe handed down to his mother from her grandmother and so on and so forth, simply “Cream Noodles.” I always like a straightforward recipe, and this one is it. I mean, basically the ingredients are in the name.

It’s homemade noodles, rolled out in flour and cut thick across the kitchen counter, twisted and soaked in a mixture of butter, chunks of potatoes, and doused in a hearty helping of heavy whipping cream.

And what does he serve on the side?

Not a salad. Oh no. That just wouldn’t do.

The only thing a good German eats with his cream noodles is a side of deer sausage fresh from a freezer full of it, the stuff he spent an entire weekend mixing and casing with his family last winter.

Be still, my heart.

Like, literally.

Yes, when he decides to cook, the man I married doesn’t hold back. And cream noodles were just the inaugural, celebratory opening act for a winter we will spend in the kitchen together concocting different versions of those homemade noodles to cook in broth for knoephla, to be fried up with butter soaked bread, to float beside chicken in soup, or to fill with cooked apples for strudel (with a side of sausage of course).

I wasn’t raised this way. My mother is a dancer, a lean woman who believes in portion sizes, 2 percent milk and side salads.

The first time I was invited to dinner at my now in-laws house was the first time I ever saw someone put cream over pork chops.

And I haven’t gone back.

Heavy whipping cream has become a staple, the backdrop, the glue that holds a good winter meal together here in this little house in the trees.

It’s my security blanket, my reassurance that if we have to have to suffer 40-below-zero temperatures, well at least God invented heavy whipping cream.

And butter.

And flour.

And a good man in an apron who knows how to make something magical out of simple ingredients – and then, because he knows it’s right, throws in a side of pork.

So bring it on winter. We’ve got this, and it’s delicious.

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