M-O-O-N, that spells lemons

I can't remember a winter with a more gnarley fingered grasp. Most of Norway has been frozen solid since the middle of December. Pushing Magnus's stroller, which normally is a treat on Grünerløkka, has become a nighmare. The sidewalks are mushy with deep, floury snow and the street corners have moats and ramparts of lumpy ice. Giant icicles line the eaves of every building, just waiting to break loose and pierce us. Some days, we don't go outside at all, it's just too cold for a little one.

Today was such a day, the fifth in a row. Though the temperature had mellowed slightly, it had been snowing continously since yesterday morning, and the wind had picked up enough to keep us cooped up in the apartment. Magnus and I were perched on the window sill, gazing out on the flurry of white flakes streaking across the greyness of the city.

And that's when I suddenly had a craving for lemons. Lemon salad dressing, lemon linguine, lemon poppy seed muffins, lemonade. I'd even take a snicket, as long as it was lemony.

I always love lemons in the spring.