It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas . . .

The mountains are covered in snow, and there's potica in the kitchen.



After a childhood of significantly white Christmases, I'm satisfied to glance out the window every once in a while and gaze on all the snow I could desire with the comforting knowledge that it's a mere 25 minutes away. Snow-covered mountains are a vast improvement over snow-covered urban Midwest city.



I think Christmas tastes like minced walnuts and rum extract. I don't have many heritage foods I can claim (dumplings? cabbage? Gigi's ausukes?), but potica (pah-TEETZ-a), Slovenian nut bread, defines Christmas with Grandma Barr.