Having a melt-down in a New Year's Eve igloo

 I know that you can tell, just by looking at us, that Brad Mosiman and I have been known to shut New Year's Eve DOWN, son! (Cue voice inflection of choice accompanied by a snazzy cross-body hand movement) Regular revelers...that's us.

Okay. That's a bit of an exaggeration. 

How we went from lighting up 151 out of the trunk of our car to falling asleep by 9:30 is a complete mystery to me. I now realize Dick Clark was flippin' gangsta...my apologies for any past pokes at his "Rocking New Year"...my golly, what I would give  if I could summon HALF the energy that he had as he continued to encourage us to watch his balls drop well into his 80s! (Grammatical clarification: Is it "ball drops?" )

Like a small town grocery store being edged out by heartless national chains, so too, has our New Year's Eve options become more and more limited. We began with the stately elegance of Sherlous Hillside with its gigantic fireplaces and elegant pianos  to The Valley Inn with its Willa Wonka-style desserts and intimate table alcoves to the Mosiman Family couch. 

But not this year!

"I rented us an igloo," I announced triumphantly to my husband.  

After three decades of marriage, it takes a bit of effort on my part to surprise him.

Like any good Wyoming County resident, it took him a moment to digest this news. Lake effect snow is our lingo...we are quite fluent in frozen precipitation. Brad Mosiman, born of the mid-west and raised in Wyoming County, is more of the "Why rent when you can buy?" type of guy...Why would we rent an igloo when we could just build our own?

I excitedly explained the geo-dome concept to him, finishing with "...and it's on the water!"  First confirming that it wasn't a floating igloo, Brad, well-versed in our local geography, was confused by the local raging river I was describing. "Do you mean Oatka Creek?" he asked. I was beginning to think that he was not getting into the spirit of our New Year's Eve adventure. This suspicion was corroborated when he lamented the 8:30 reservation time.

Concerned that I would be cold, Brad refused to let me dress like a harlot. If he had had his way, he would have traded my sequins and thigh-high leg slit for a snowsuit. Fortunately, he was satisfied with my compromise outfit of thick socks, jeans, and a warm sweater. As we sleepily prepared for our departure to our New Year's Eve excursion, we attempted to maintain balanced expectations...hoping to solidly land between abject failure and triumphant success.

Turns out...being cold was NOT a problem as a wave of tropical heat blasted us as our server unzipped our igloo and shoved us in...we immediately wrestled the three small heaters into a more reasonable compliance and then sat, entranced, in our twinkly dome...vacillating whether we felt more like the filaments in an incandescent lightbulb or the stuffing in a turkey. The "tasting process" began immediately...seven small courses of food that defied description AND Google translation. Naturally, I protested anything called a "microgreen," stared dismally at my roasted brussel sprout, and happily pronounced  my "frizzled leek" a close cousin to a Funyun. "Who cooks a grape?" I asked my husband who would not be bothered to respond as he diligently marathon-ed his way through a generous tasting of mussels, halibut, and filet mignon. 

There was a welcomed break from eating for the community fireworks show. I'd forgotten how pleasant fireworks can be when I'm not occupied with penitent prayer..."Please Lord, let everyone visiting my home leave tonight with the same number of fingers and toes with which they arrived. Please Lord, I beseech that any fires be manageably extinguished by your Good Grace." My favorite fireworks were low arching lights that cascaded directly down onto the frozen river, striking like lava or a welder's forge. 

Returning to the warmth of our little cocoon, I inventoried my forks. Having learned most of my table manner etiquette from "Pretty Woman"  and "Titanic," I knew to start with the furthest fork and work my way in, relinquishing each one like it was a well-ran race horse...and selecting a new fork filly for the next heat. Brad, back-country bumpkin that he is, hoarded his utensils like a bad-mannered troll. Naturally, I consulted our server, the beautiful Danielle, who, by now, realized that she had a pair of special customers in Igloo #2. She diplomatically said that both methods are acceptable and welcomed at her establishment but would make sure that the ratio of fork-to-food would be addressed on my more ladylike-side of the table. And, to be fair, yeah...I was pretty drunk by this time. Brad, abstaining as he was driving, relinquished his portion of the bottle of Prosecco. As I'd already Googled most of the menu; loudly questioning the confusing use of the word "zesty" (Do they mean fun and lively? Do they mean sexy? Can fish be sexy? Do they mean spicy? I'll get heartburn and won't be able to sleep. Or are they implying that some sort of rind was actually zested? Where is Danielle?"), I did a deep dive on the Prosecco. "It's like champagne only it's not from

the area OF Champagne," I told my husband, "Which is in France. Prosecco is made in Italy." Brad was too busy using one fork like a Neanderthal to listen to me. Nevertheless, I continued. "Bubbles are somehow magically implanted into each Champagne bottle," I informed him knowledgably, "whereas Prosecco (I gestured at our bottle, nearly knocking it over...Brad, clutching his fork in one hand, continued eating his filet mignon while saving the bottle with his other hand) has bubbles added to the barrel. It's the lazy man's Champagne!" I concluded before announcing that potatoes are not meant to be pureed unless one has suffered a broken jaw. I eyed the filet mignon. "You won't like the cheese on top," Brad told me. How DARE he! He knows I love cheese! "Ugh!" I spat. Turns out I don't like Gorgonzola cheese...not surprising...Medusa's sisters were gorgons. 

"What am I going to do with my filet mignon?" I whispered. "I don't want Danielle to think I didn't like it." I eyed up my complimentary New Year's Eve party hat. "Oh no," Brad sighed. I'd safely stored my meat as our dessert arrived. There was a LOT going on here, fancy-wise. Tiny chocolate pebbles. A plum center in the middle of the mousse. Slivered chocolate bark erupting out. "It's reminiscent of the chocolate skin coating of a Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll," I whispered ("You THOUGHT you whispered," Brad said later). Knowing that I am a solid Hostess girl, Brad wisely refrained from comment to limit further discussion.

Perfect as she was, Danielle gave me TERRIBLE directions to the restrooms. Because of her, I tripped down a ramp, almost barged into the staff entrance, and knocked over a mis-mash of bar stools not appropriately pushed in on the outside patio. Fortunately, due to my clear thinking, I managed to find it. "It was like being in a fancy stone cave!" I reported back to Brad (after I tried to get into another igloo first...darn that Danielle). 

It was, unfortunately, time to go. We had had a wonderful time which, of course, delighted Danielle, upon whom our happiness meant the world. Brad thoroughly enjoyed the food, the fireworks, and, naturally, the magical company. From what I can remember, I had a pretty good time too. "Be sure to come back," Danielle encouraged as I tripped out of my yurt, clutching my purloined mignon. "Tell your friends." "Are you kidding?" I answered, giggling like a drunken goof, "We're not telling ANYONE! It'll be our little secret." Danielle dropped me a wink and grinned, "Sure. Keep it under your hat."