Ready for Summer!

By someone who has worn the same winter boots since October.

Well, Groundhog Day has come and gone. Again. Just like clockwork, that overgrown hamster known as Punxsutawney Phil popped his furry little head out, saw his shadow (because of course it was sunny), and sentenced us to six more weeks of winter. Figures.

I don’t know what the weather was like in your neck of the woods, but here in the Great North Woods, it was blindingly sunny. You know—the kind of sun that makes you hopeful for warmth but only exists to bounce off the snow and blind you with all the intensity of a welding torch. My corneas are still sizzling.

And can we talk about Phil for a moment? The rodent has his own fan club. A website even. Merchandise. People travel from miles around to cheer him on like he’s some kind of meteorological rock star. Meanwhile, I’m just over here digging my car out of the driveway for the third time this week and wondering why my shovel seems shorter every year.

According to the “experts,” Phil is right about 50% of the time. That’s not predicting the weather—that’s flipping a coin while wearing a top hat. Which, by the way, those handlers in tuxedos really lean into. I don’t want to sound bitter, but I’ve yet to see anyone roll out a red carpet for me when I crawl out of bed, look outside, and grumble about the forecast. (Although to be fair, I don’t usually wear a tux.)

Anyway, despite what the marmot mafia says, I am officially declaring it spring. That’s right. I’m done. I’m wearing short sleeves inside the house. I’m flipping through seed catalogs like they’re fashion magazines. I even put on my gardening gloves the other day just to feel something different.

The chickens are with me. They've been lined up at the barn door like they’re waiting for a Target opening on Black Friday, staring out at the snow like, “Nope. Not doing it.” One particularly bold hen actually tried to stage a walkout—made it two feet before sinking like a ship. She’s still mad. Giving me side-eye through the coop window and muttering about unionizing.

The sheep? Oh, they’ve had it. They’re standing in a group, glaring at me like I personally extended winter just to ruin their social calendar. They’ve been fluffing up their wool like it’s a protest statement. Every time I come outside, I get the same look you’d give someone who just said “we’re out of coffee.” I’m pretty sure one of them is knitting a sign that says “SPRING OR STRIKE.”

I have mentally packed up winter and shipped it off to somewhere it can be appreciated—like Antarctica or a ski resort in need of fresh powder. I’m tired of my laundry consisting entirely of flannel, wool, and whatever socks I can layer over other socks. I want to see grass again. Real grass. Not that flattened, matted straw stuff under the deck that smells like broken dreams.

So here’s hoping Phil is wrong (again), spring is early (somehow), and we can all dig ourselves out of the snowbanks and into a lawn chair before June.

Because let’s be honest: I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending that hot chocolate counts as a vegetable.

And if that little groundhog pops up again with bad news next year? Well... let’s just say Aunt May had a recipe for stew, and I’ve got carrots.

Aunt May’s Groundhog Stew

For when winter just won’t take the hint.

Prep Time: Depends how fast you can catch him
Cook Time: Long enough to melt the snow
Serves: One very satisfied Northerner (or four annoyed chickens and a sheep)

Ingredients:

• 1 overconfident groundhog (fresh from his 15 minutes of fame)

• 2 cups carrots (extra pointy for dramatic flair)

• 3 potatoes, peeled and chopped

• 1 onion, diced while muttering “I’ll give you six more weeks…”

• 2 cloves garlic (or more if the groundhog's fan club shows up)

• 4 cups beef broth (or water from melted snowdrift)

• 1 bay leaf (because Aunt May said so)

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Dash of vindication

• Optional: a splash of red wine or leftover Christmas frustration

Instructions:

1. Preheat your wood stove to "furious."

2. Sear groundhog chunks in a cast-iron pot until they stop predicting weather.

3. Add onions and garlic. Stir while practicing your “See what happens?” speech.

4. Add carrots, potatoes, and broth. Toss in the bay leaf for class.

5. Simmer for 2-3 hours, or until the bitterness melts and your boots finally dry.

6. Serve with cornbread and a sunny disposition. Garnish with smug satisfaction.

Note:
Substitute chicken if groundhog is unavailable (but don’t tell the hens—morale’s already low). For a vegetarian version, just eat the carrots and scream into a snowbank.