REGION — I’ve figured it out. Yes, I have. I’m almost positive. It has to be this:
The weather reports on TV are sponsored by the supermarkets.
Not officially, of course. You’ll never see “Tonight’s nor’easter sponsored by So-and-So Foods.” But it’s there. Subtle. Powerful. Sinister. Like a two-for-one canned-bean special.
Let’s take one of this winter’s storms.
Friday night, the meteorologist comes on with that tone. You know the one. The “brace yourself” voice. The “find the canned goods and hold your loved ones” voice. Forty-mile-per-hour winds. Wind chill 30 degrees below zero. Three-plus inches of snow. “Stay in. Don’t go anywhere. Have extra blankets ready.”
It sounds less like a forecast and more like the trailer for an apocalyptic movie.
You half expect dramatic music to swell in the background.

Remember Dodi Grant singing “The Wayward Wind is a Restless Wind”? Well, apparently it was headed straight for my zip code. The meteorologists look deadly serious. Their brows furrowed. Sleeves rolled up. Radar graphics swirling like they’ve just discovered Category Five over Kauneonga Lake.
You can tell they’ve been trained.
Not by the National Weather Service.
By supermarket diction experts.
They lower their voices just enough to make you shiver. “This system…is intensifying.”
Intensifying.
That word alone sells 200 loaves of bread.
And what’s the first thing you think about?
Not oil.
Not gas.
Not whether your tank is full.
Not whether your homeowner’s policy is paid up.
No.
You think: Food.
Do we have enough food?
Suddenly your kitchen looks like an empty field. You stare into a refrigerator that, five minutes ago, was perfectly adequate. Now? “We’ll never make it through the storm.” I have to remember that there are only two of us.
You whisper to your spouse: “How much milk do we have?”
“Half a gallon.”
Half a gallon? That’s not milk. That’s a memory.
As soon as sunlight cracks the horizon the next morning, you’re up. Clipboard in hand. Twelve hours to Armageddon.
What time does the supermarket open?
You’re there.
So is everyone else.
The parking lot looks like the opening scene of a disaster movie. Carts flying. People are powerwalking like Olympic speed shoppers. One woman has three cases of water and the wild eyes of someone who heard the phrase “wintry mix.”
You grab a cart.
No, you grab two.
You move through the aisles like the Road Runner, hearing that mesmerizing 11 PM meteorologist’s voice echoing in your head.
“He was serious.”
You don’t even eat kale, but suddenly you buy kale. Why? Because it’s there. And it’s green. And you might need it during the blizzard siege.
Bread? Gone.
Milk? Almost gone.
Eggs? Vanished like socks in a dryer.
You grab things you’ve never eaten before. You grab items out of other people’s carts when they are not looking.
Frozen pierogies.
Canned chickpeas.
Three jars of something labeled with something you can’t pronounce, but it’s high in protein.
The checkout lines are insane. Thirty carts deep. You make friends with strangers. You compare snow predictions like war stories.
“What channel did you watch?”
“Channel 7.”
“Oh no, I watched Channel 4. They said four inches.”
“FOUR? We’re doomed.”
You finally get home and unload enough groceries to supply a small militia.
Now you are preparing.
Extra blankets.
Flashlights.
Batteries.
You look out the window like you’re waiting for locusts.
“My house in Kauneonga Lake might wake up in Smallwood,” you mutter.
You go to sleep braced for impact.
Morning arrives.
You open one cautious eye.
Silence.
You look outside.
The sun is shining like it’s auditioning for a tourism brochure.
Two inches of snow. Maybe. A 20-mph wind that occasionally fluffs the trees like it’s styling their hair.
That’s it.
No Armageddon.
No frozen wasteland.
No migrating houses.
I bundle up anyway, walk outside, confirm that my house is exactly where I left it, light a stogie, sit on the deck in direct sunlight, and take it all in.
The lake is still frozen and peaceful.
My refrigerator is so full it hums differently.
We don’t have to go to the supermarket until March.
And as I sit there, smiling, cigar smoke curling in the winter sun, I say to myself:
“Yes. The weather has to be sponsored by the supermarkets.”
There is no other explanation.
Because nothing—nothing—moves groceries like a meteorologist whispering, “This could be significant.” That phrase sells a lot of groceries.
Michael Kossove has spent the winter in Sullivan County, NY.