It’s Sunday night, and the snow is falling like Hallmark movies and Christmas cards, all of which I’m well over by this stage of the season. I’m sorting through my wardrobe to find a summer dress that can be winterized long enough to get me to Chef Molotov Fiona Genevieve‘s Jardin d’Hiver.

It’s the first real snow, and Montreal is moving slowly. It’s not cold out, but as every Canadian knows, winter is more complicated than temperature.