It’s March up here in New England. There’s a fresh mess of snow and rain outside. It’s going to melt and then by tonight it will begin to freeze. If it’s March up here in New England and there’s snow on the ground, it means I’m inside clawing my eyes out. I’m romanticizing spring in the deep deep south. I’m wondering why I ever left. I’m thinking about Louisiana, bees buried in camellias and magnolias. I’m thinking about Spanish moss dripping from live oaks. Sweet olive trees that smell so good. I’m thinking about a mint julep at Oak Alley Plantation and powdered sugar on a warm beignet. Most of all, I’m thinking about crawfish. I’ll wash you crawfish down with beer, the only thing here that’s allowed to be cold.