“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.”

There are only two times during the year when I make a specific meal that I don’t make otherwise. Around Christmas, I make a lasagna, and sometime around St. Patrick’s Day, I make a New England boiled dinner.

I didn’t really think about it before I sat down to write this post, but I think I do this, in part, because between those two holidays — from just after the first of the year, right up until the beginning of spring — I suffer from what is possibly the worst acronymed disorder ever: seasonal affective disorder, or SAD. (I almost can’t even take it seriously with an acronym like that. Sometimes I like to call it the SAD, the way old people sometimes do, like your grandma saying, “Did you hear? Margaret’s got the cancer.” Only, with SAD, it’s more like, “Gee whiz, Timmy, I can’t go ice skating today; I’ve got the SAD.”)

I wish having the SAD were as funny as cracking jokes about it, but the truth is, it sucks. It sucks, sucks, sucks.

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