Alison McGhee

That your nose hairs freeze the second you walk outside.

That you cough uncontrollably the second you walk outside.

That your booted, double-socked toes are continually stubbed as you kick repeatedly at frozen dog turds while on poop patrol.

That you have to hunch down to the level of the steering wheel in order to see out of the only truly clear patch on the dashboard despite scraping, wiping, and setting the defrost on full blast.

That the plug-in heat seater your sister gave you for Christmas shorts out after only a week, probably due to constant overuse.

That you carry hand lotion with you wherever you go, but it doesn’t matter, because your hands crack and bleed anyway.

That no matter how carefully you explain it to him, your dog still sits on the snow and tilts his head at you, not understanding why his paws are literally frozen.

That no matter how long you aim your fake-sun lamp at your eyeballs, you still can’t lift the gloom that has descended on your spirit.

That others tell you continually how beautiful winter is, and that it is your job to change your attitude.

That when they come up to you to be petted, your dogs inadvertently shock you with their electrified fur.

That despite the fact that you are currently wearing smartwool socks, silk long underwear top and bottom, fleece-lined Carhartt men’s jeans, a long-sleeved knit shirt, a wool sweater, a fleece vest, and a scarf – and you are INSIDE YOUR HOUSE – you are still trembling with cold.

Do I love weekend breakfasts? Yes.

Huge greasy weekend late morning/early afternoon breakfasts of eggs and pancakes and bacon and toast and coffee? Yes.

Do I live in Minneapolis? Yes.

Have I lived here for twenty years? Yes.

Had I ever been to the Band Box Diner, at 729 S. Tenth St. in Minneapolis? Not until yesterday.

Here is what I ordered: a plate-size pancake with butter and syrup, a side of sausage, and two orders of American fries. I debated about a cup of coffee – I’m a single perfect cup made with boiling water hand-poured through a filter at dawn type, so there is little worse in my personal culinary world than nasty coffee that’s been burning for hours on a hot plate, but I threw caution to the winds and ordered a cup.

Tasty! As was the pancake!

BUT.

The American fries.

I’ve never had anything like them. They took a long time to get to the table, but in my experience, perfection often does take a long time. These American fries were soft, melt-in-the-mouth soft, with equally soft onions, grilled together with the potatoes just long enough so that crisp bits mixed in with the overall melting softness.

As I ate, the cook stood by the grill peeling already-boiled red potatoes and then, as he held each one in his hand, slicing it tenderly in cross-hatched rows until a pile of pieces fell into a waiting bowl. The waitress, with her many lovely tattoos and piled tangle of black hair, greeted an old, mute, toothless woman by name – “Hello, Monica, do you want the usual?” and set a can of Sprite and a hamburger down before her.

The counter stools are red. They twirl. The tables are red. The windows are large. The place is tiny. My friend and I ate everything on all four of our plates. “I’m surprised you can even move, after all that food,” said the waitress.

The Band Box is my new favorite diner in Minneapolis. It’s a one of a kind, the antithesis of a chain restaurant. Wherever you live, tell me about your own one-of-a-kind diner, will you? I’d like to visit it someday.

Praise to the airport dog park.
Praise to its winter marsh and blue snow and wide white slopes.
Praise to its dark branches reaching skyward.
Praise to the roaring birds of jets, ascending and alighting.
Praise to the large woman with the high fretting voice, calling her dogs over and over, calling them that they, unlike the others, might never leave her.
Praise to the man with the leathery face and the earflapped cap, treading the far marsh with his huskies.
Praise to wilderness surrounded by highways and barbed-wire FAA fences.
Praise to this place that reminds me that winter is beautiful.
Praise to life sleeping under the ice, holding itself within itself.
Praise to my black dog, shadow behind my legs.
Praise to his doe-eyed cousin, friend to all he meets.
Praise to them both, flat-eared silent streaks, racing the woodland path.
Praise to the god of dogs, who watches over their streaming tails, their soulful eyes, and their consecrated hearts.