Wind and snow whipping around the yard.
Windows get all steamed.
Write your name on the mist. Smells that you will recognize in later years with a tug on your heart. There is no soup as good as the soup Mama made when you were young. I remember going to the Poultry Store with Grandma to buy live chickens. The man in the store would kill it for you by twisting its neck quickly, then dunking it in a vat full of boiling water, and someone would pull off the feathers.