Had it been the past few years, I would have told her to come, the winters aren’t that bad anymore. Thanks to global warming, we Minnesotans have been spoiled. When we want to talk about The Big One, we have to search all the way back to 1991, the year of the unforgettable Halloween snowstorm. Cedar Avenue was rutted with ice and many roads had drivers at a standstill. I remember it well because my father was in intensive care at Fairview Southdale Hospital. As I drove north to visit him every day, my concern for him was nearly matched by my fear that I might slide off the road and end up in a bed in the same unit.

Before that, though, there were many other downfalls that inconvenienced us but not enough that we can pinpoint the day and the year. Not much stops us hardy Minnesotans. I remember only one time in my 27 years of selling cars that the dealership where I worked closed because of the weather. It was a Saturday before Christmas. Even though the big malls closed because of the snow and cold, my friend learned St. Anthony Main was open. Despite warnings from our husbands and meteorologists, we ventured downtown to finish our holiday shopping.

The only blizzard that stopped me in my tracks was when I was a freshman at the University of Minnesota. For the first time in the school’s history, classes were cancelled. I lived at home and even after the worst was over, my mother forbade me to drive because of the unsafe road conditions. Mom left me no choice: I bundled up in warm clothes and took my little sisters, 8 and 10, outside to play. For a couple of hours, I forgot I was a grownup college student and reverted to childish fun. The little girls and I made snow angels and snow people and had a snowball fight. My younger brother, a high school student, joined the frolic. He drew the line at snow angels but wasn’t too cool to lob a few well-packed snowballs at us.

When I spoke with my newly-retired friend last week, I didn’t tell her to visit sooner than spring. That our winters aren’t as frigid and snowy as people think. This year, it would have been a tall tale. Brr … this year may make history. Cold, with more flurries on the way, this has been a season only those of us with hardiness can take. No, I’ll definitely tell my friend not to visit until spring. Late spring. Maybe summer. After all, when I was three-years-old, we had so much snow that, instead of dressing in Easter finery, my sister and I wore snowsuits to church. Later that day, Dad took us outside with our cousins and we made a six-foot-tall bunny in the front yard. I have the picture to prove it. Brr …

Happy holidays to all!

Even though three of our grandchildren are young, they like to receive gift cards, just like their big sister. Which is good, because their grandma isn’t much of a shopper anymore and the gift cards make it easy. Plus, I know they’ll react to them with joy. Which is what it’s all about, right? Last year, I dropped the store cards into decorated gift bags and stuffed the bags with fancy tissue sticking out at the top. Even though they took turns and said, “Thank you,” after digging out each one, it had taken us longer to get situated in our chairs than it took them to open their packages.

This year, I got each child more cards but in smaller increments. I hit one of the dollar stores for coloring books, tablets of drawing paper, crayons, pencils, and erasers. I took a page from that Christmas so long ago and wrapped everything individually so when the grandchildren arrive for our Christmas celebration, there will be oodles of gifts under the tree. This year, instead of putting a gift card in an envelope or gift bag, I put them in various-shaped boxes, wrapped each one in kid-friendly holiday paper and tied ribbon around them. Or added a shiny machine-made bow. Not to fool anyone, but to make gift-opening last a bit longer.

It’s the same thing I did when my little girl was almost two. Even though we were broke and people said she was too little to know, I didn’t care. We found a little tree and decorated it with ornaments and lights. We bought our daughter small gifts and some three packs of new underwear. She was still in diapers but I hoped to potty-train her before the baby was born. I did what my mother had done for her four girls — bought fancy underpants with ruffles and little roses across the back — rumba pants, my mother called them. My husband thought I was crazy, but I tore open the packaging and separated the pants and rose-decorated undershirts. I wrapped each one as well as the inexpensive items from the discount store. My husband drew the line at separating the hair barrettes, though. Even so, by the time I got done, there was a nice stack of gaily decorated presents for our toddler and she squealed with delight over each one.

Knowing my grandchildren, they’ll do the same and be as thankful for the 8-for-a-dollar Santa pencils as they are for the gift cards from … Shh! … I had better keep that under wraps.

President-elect Obama says the economy will get worse before it gets better. I shouldn’t dare to spend a dime but when I looked at my wardrobe and saw a dearth of winter clothing, I wondered if it would hurt to use some of the department store coupons I’d received to buy a couple of sweaters, some trousers. Maybe a little jacket or two. It might stimulate the economy, I rationalized. I wrestled with my thoughts, then asked my husband for his opinion. He agreed. Since I weeded through the shelves and hangers of my closet last spring and gave away items too big, too small, or so old they were comical, there wasn’t much left. I gathered the store coupons and off we went. Coupons added to advertised mark downs meant the store would probably pay me to take garments off their hands.

Are you old enough to remember when the word “sale” meant something? Did you shop for deals in Dayton’s basement? Montgomery Ward’s bargain room? Mom dragged us kids to the depths of Dayton’s regularly. Dad’s sister, Aunt Kaye, got “a steal” on everything she wore but looked like a million dollars. If you complimented her outfit, she’d say, “Oh, kid. I got this at Monkey Ward’s bargain room.” Dad loved a deal, too. In the days when “close-out” meant something was really being discontinued, he bought six sewing machines at J.C. Penney’s — one for each of his five children and one for himself — even though I was the only one of the group who could sew and hated it. But Dad lived for bargains. I, the apple, didn’t fall far from that tree.

At Macy’s, I headed for the women’s clothing section. I found sweaters and pants; even a couple of jackets. I piled pieces into my husband’s arms and we made our way to the register where I proudly presented my stack of savings passes. One after another wasn’t any good because an item had already been marked down or was a value leader to begin with. No doubling up on coupons, either, we learned. The cashmere sweater I thought would cost only $33 dollars would be more than twice that. Some coupons had expired; others wouldn’t be good for days. Pouf! went the closet full of outfits I dreamt about as we crossed the river on our way to the mall. In reality, I couldn’t afford to fill many hangers with my allotted budget. Deflated, I asked the sales clerk why the store doesn’t just mark things down once and for all and stop sending out all the gimmicky coupons. She laughed and told me about the customer who said the coupons are only good for undies.

Even though I was able to save a bit on some sweaters, two pair of pants, and a couple of little jackets, I paid more than I intended because most of my coupons wouldn’t work. The frustrating experience left me exhausted.

Do you remember the fable about the boy who cried wolf? When there really was a wolf, no one believed him because he’d tried to trick the townspeople so many times before. Well, never again will I fall for the department stores crying wolf about their big sales and their coupon come-ons. Now, I’m tightening my belt. It will have to be my old belt, though. All those worthless coupons meant I couldn’t afford a new one.

Billed as a “heartwarming” half-hour, the premise is this: the host takes a person home to Mom’s kitchen where they will learn to cook a favorite recipe from childhood. Maybe one that has been passed down through generations. What I wouldn’t give to be transported to the kitchen on West 49^th Street where my mother simmered sauce all day for what was a family favorite, spaghetti. Mom was proud that the meat she browned for the dish wasn’t plain old ground beef. She paid a little extra for ground round. The five of us kids liked this meal so much we had it every Christmas Eve. It was the only thing that could get us away from the tree where we’d been shaking gaily-wrapped boxes all day, hoping to get some idea of what was inside.

As we got older, Mom tried to introduce us to more elaborate cuisine. But chicken cacciatore and turkey tretrazini were wasted on our simple palettes. We begged for porcupine meatballs made from the recipe on the side of the Minute Rice box, beef stroganoff with egg noodles, and sloppy Joe’s made with two kinds of Campbell’s soup and served on soft white hamburger buns. I always stuck my potato chips right inside the sandwich to give it a little crunch.

I missed the premiere of the back-to-back episodes of Mom’s Cooking last Monday morning. “What’s the best dish your mom cooks?” the promo had asked. Curious to see what had happened, I watched the first show later via the Internet. Daughter Ursula, prodded by host Joe C., followed her mother’s instructions and made barbecued ribs and rhubarb brown Betty. My mother made ribs, too. They fell off the bones just like Ursula’s did. I wished they’d made apple crisp instead of brown Betty, though. Just thinking about my mother’s apple dessert makes my mouth water.

After I watched the video, I was sorry my mother and I hadn’t cooked side-by-side more often. Mom didn’t have us kids assist her in the kitchen much. It was a lot easier to do it herself. But she did let us help with desserts. We could use the hand-held mixer to beat cake batter and she let my sister and me, the two oldest, stir chocolate for homemade fudge. We took turns keeping our eyes on the thermometer, too. If Mom had been feeling extra patient, she may have let us shave the semi-sweet chocolate over the double boiler. For sure, we licked the spoons later.

I may watch the cooking show. Or check it out again at www.mylifetime.com. See what you think. My mother has passed on but if you’re lucky enough to have your mom and she still lives in the family home, the two of you could cook on TV. What recipe would you pick? It’s hard to decide, isn’t it? Everything my mom made was scrumptious. I wonder if she’s “up there” teaching the angels how to bake bundt cake. Or lemon bars. Talk about heavenly.