The electric feeling in the air before a snowstorm reminds me of being little again. There's a giddiness and a building anticipation; throughout the city, the energy feels heightened. The grocery stores are busier, everyone seems chattier. The television screens inside nail salons and sports bars hum with red headlines promising "up to 6 inches!" and images of handsome weathermen interspersed with still shots of previous winters: Central Park blanketed in snow, cabs swerved on icy roads, and so on.

What marks a life well-lived better than cake? The happiest, most celebratory moments are marked by it. I tick through brightly-colored memories in flavors of cake. Wedding cake. Birthday cake. Sunday morning coffeecake. Post-field hockey game apple cake. Chocolate lava cake after high school nights out. Funfetti cake from a mix after college nights out. Chiffon cake, frosted Yule logs at Christmas, simple yogurt cakes topped with fresh strawberries from the garden all summer.

Life is always happening. There is no pause button, no daily translation of pausing on a run for quick breather while you stretch your quads, and certainly no real-life version of holding onto the side of the pool wall when you can't tread water any longer. Or need a sip of your sunbathing friend's strawberry daiquiri. Oh wait! There is essentially a real-life version of that and it is called wine and it is currently in my left hand while I type this with my right. 

And to think that here I was, wishing the year would just turn to autumn already. Maybe it's because I haven't made my monthly work trip to Vermont (I know, I know, my life is tough!) since August. I've been dreaming about the resplendent foliage that turns the rolling hills a blazing red and vivid orange. I've been remembering the heavy, sultry smell of wood smoke, and how it hangs in the air, promising cozy scenes of porch-wrapped white houses: a golden retriever snoozing by the hearth on a soft rug and families sprawled on the couch after dinner eating cake and laughing.