Last week on a Caribbean cruise, the same question kept coming up at dinner. Minnesota? How can you live there? The first time you smile and say, "Oh, you dress in layers — wool, then cotton, then paraffin-soaked burlap you can ignite if things get dire, then a parka, a muffler, a ski mask and gloves. That's for going to bed. When you leave the house, you really have to bundle up."

That's what they're asking about. How can you live in a place so cold?

After six or seven times you get a tight smile: You're right. I can't. And then you grab the butter knife and start pantomiming ritual disembowelment and slam your face into the creme brulee. Happy now, everyone?

Never in my life have I met someone from Arizona and asked, "How can you stand the heat?" Possibly because I fear the answer will be: "Well, I get out of the kitchen. Har!" Or because they'll give me a curious expression and note that air conditioning helps, and as long as you don't stand under a big magnifying glass you'll be fine. We never imagine people in Arizona crawling across Target parking lots like lost men in the desert muttering, "Water! Water! Evian if you've got it!" But for some reason they think Minnesota is Neptune with good theater.

It's beautiful, I said to people as we sat outside in the Caribbean sun. It's civilized and clean. Great arts scene! Lots of brew pubs. Then I came home last Sunday. I stepped out of the airport doors, and the cold stung so hard your eyes watered, because I live in a city where the weather literally makes you cry.

Got in the cab. Where to? TAKE ME TO A QUALITY ARTS VENUE. No, scratch that — let's tour the city's thriving brewpub scene.

Here's the thing: Even if you hadn't gone away, this is how you felt when winter slammed down. Snow this early we can take. Thanksgiving is close, and snow lends the over-the-river-and-through-the-woods mood and all that. But snow plus bone-cracking cold this early is like a root canal during a colonoscopy, and everyone seemed stunned with bleak, existential hopelessness. November had the mood of late January, when people are starting to crack. It's like a soldier feeling shellshocked as he gets aboard the ship that will take him to Normandy: The pacing is all wrong.

You ask yourself: Do I want to die here? But it's a silly question. Example:

Hey, you want to go to Perkins?

Yes BUT I DON'T WANT TO DIE THERE.

Uh — OK, just thought we could get some pie.

PIE RHYMES WITH DIE.

Dude, you OK?

IT'S JUST SO COLD.

They can warm up the pie.

No one ever says I'd like to die here. No — hold on — there, eight feet from where I am now. By that shrub. That'd be great. What you mean is, this is not the place where I wish to spend my declining years, especially since it's likely I'll slip and fall and the last thing I hear will be all my bones sounding like a box of dishes dropped from the top of the Foshay.

Then I remembered why I live here.

It's the Grape Salad.

The New York Times did a survey of regional cuisines for each state, and of course Grape Salad was their choice from Minnesota. Who among us hasn't dug into a good Grape Salad and thought, "My, this is just like Mom used to make. Why, she'd spend all day in the kitchen, extracting the seeds with a tweezer."

Can't you remember the last State Fair, when you had deep-fried Grape Salad on a stick? Remember the time you had Thanksgiving at your sister's and she thought you were bringing the Grape Salad and you thought she was bringing it, and everyone pretended it was OK: Heck, we can do without, and then she started crying because you had one thing to bring, one thing, and you couldn't even do that, but ohhhh, that's OK, we understand, just like we understood when you didn't send a card for your niece's sixth-grade graduation, and then she throws down the napkin and leaves the room.

No?

Right. Really, New York Times? Grape Salad? What did you have for North Dakota, cilantro hummus?

Two days before I got on the ship, I went home for a wake. A marvelous lady had passed from this earth, and all the relatives convened. The daughters made hot dish. Hamburger, rice, green beans to give you something to poke to the side of the plate. Crunchy noodles. It was exquisite. (You wanted to eat three helpings, but you had to leave room for some bars.) It was a raw day, colder than it was down in the Cities, a foretaste of the clime about to descend on southeastern Minnesota. I didn't care because I was going to the Caribbean.

Did she want to die here? Silly question. This was where her life was, and she loved her life. She tsk-tsked the cold days and beamed with joy over the warm ones. She stayed. For better and for worse, as they say when you're pledging your troth.

If we're married to this place, though, some counseling might be in order, because both sides have issues.

I feel like you're not respecting my needs when you slam down winter so fast.

Well, I don't like it when I catch you surfing airfares on the Web.

Sun Country had a sale! I was just looking! You know I love you. Even when you get — well, you know.

Like what?

Sometimes you're … cold. There. I've said it.

(rolls eyes) Oh, shut up and make me a grape salad.

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858