It snowed on Easter. And it snowed the day before. Thick flakes fell out of the sky a day later and are probably falling as I type this. And you know what? It barely even matters. Because once you have grown accustomed to it, the winter gets relegated to the sidelines. Instead, we indulge in every last sun ray, soak up all the daylight we get, cook up ever more ambitious meals and dream ourselves off to faraway places. Me? I no longer care about the snow. And maybe what your parents used to tell you is right: if you refuse to let yourself be bother by it, it will go away automatically.