When my sisters and I were younger, we lived for that skating rink ... we'd head down there all the time, bundled up against the January chill, wobbling from the bleachers to the ice on bright pink or purple skateguards. We'd skate and skate, trying to master those elusive figure eights, inevitably falling midway through and struggling back up, arms flailing madly, giggling uncontrollably.

On days when we didn't feel like skating, we'd turn to our front yard for amusement: a huge bush by the door became a sledding hill; the giant pile of snow left on the curb by the snow removal truck was easily dug into a huge fort.

No matter where we chose to play, though, we would always come stampeding in, dripping wet snow all over, demanding hot chocolate. My mom would take out the big white jug she always used, fill it with milk, and pop it into the microwave while we wrestled out of our snowsuits and threw them into the dryer. She'd stir in huge spoonfuls of quik powder, but we'd always ask for more; then we'd each go pick a Christmas mug from the sideboard in the dining room, and she'd pour it out for us as we passed the bag of marshmallows around.

I was reminded of all this earlier when I went to make some hot chocolate because I was feeling off, and it had suddenly dawned on me that it would make me feel much better. Although it did help a lot, it also made me feel a bit sad: that sort of melancholy feeling one gets when they revisit a place they used to love as a kid, for example, and realize that it really wasn't all that special; or the way one might feel when they reenact an activity that they used to love doing, only to realize that it can never be as easy as it is when you're a kid, because adults inevitably complicate things: it's too cold to go skating, I'm afraid of getting hurt, no hot chocolate for me thanks, I'm watching my weight.

I find myself missing the strangest things sometimes.