Last week we went to Telluride, CO to ski with my family. Lux has a circadian clock like no other, so she woke up around 5:30 every morning. We would moan and groan, and finally turn on the lights and get dressed, much to her delight.

Because everyone else was still sleeping, we’d go down to the lobby of our building where a fire was roaring, and bad coffee was served for free. The New York Times can’t make it up the mountain in time for the day, so they fax a “summary” paper which the resort then prints out and staples together.

I grew up skiing with my dad.

Joe hadn’t skied, ever, in his life, until last year.

We signed him up for a few lessons, and when I checked in again, he was roughly 5x better than me. To become a better skier you have to be fearless and love speed. I like: watching my ski tips plow through the fresh snow, slowly weaving through tree trails and down really lazy mountain passages, and riding the chairlift with the sun on my face.

So now Joe’s faster and better than me, but we still skied together for a couple hours every day, and took breaks along the way at the little places you can buy hot chocolate (and once, champagne with ham and cheese sandwiches).

At the warming huts you buy the cup for the hot chocolate and then you use push-button machine to fill it up. That’s not very romantic, except they leave the bin of mini marshmallows and canisters of whipping cream out, serve yourself style. So you can layering as much of both as you like, with no one even noticing what you made off with.