Grandmother pours batter onto the press and listens as it hisses on the hot metal. Then she checks her watch and waits for the right moment to stack the buttery pizzelles high on the baking sheet and sprinkle them with powdered sugar. Outside the kitchen window, it’s gray, windy. The snow is falling harder now, faster than before. It’s starting to stick too. They’re calling for four feet. If too much snow piles onto the roof, it will cave in, swallow the house whole. This house where my siblings and I scraped our hands along the bumps of the popcorn ceiling. Where we jumped on the lumpy couch cushions until our faces turned red and our feet grew pulses. Where we felt the sting of our rug-burned bellies hours after sliding down the carpeted stairs. Where we licked the icing from the candles of a dozen birthday cakes at the same kitchen table Grandmother and I sit at now. If we get four feet of snow like they say we will, it won’t just take the house. It will bury us too. Just as I open my mouth to tell Grandmother all this, she hands me a pizzelle and tells me to stop worrying. There isn’t enough room in my mouth for my words and the anise. I eat, and my thoughts give way to the taste of licorice.