A very unhappy woman somewhere in New England. At least she has those donuts.

Let's discuss for a moment this presumption people have about New Englanders.

Yes, we grew up where it was cold, but we do not all "love" winter, as we are often told we should. My family knew nothing about outdoorsy clothing. We did not ski. REI was not part of our reality. To "winterize" your children was to double-bag their sock-clad feet in plastic before pulling on their rubber boots. This mad science produced the effect that the snow caked at the top of the boots where they met the rubber bags, producing a delightful ring-of-ice-around-shin effect. While my brother happily constructed snow forts, I would press my nose to the window and watch mom working at her desk by the fire after tossing us out. In her defense, we were maniacs as kids, but all I wanted was to join her. Drinking cocoa. Reading Jane Eyre. Maybe nursing a pipe, like Thoreau.

I had an argument with a Massachusetts-born gentleman recently. He is under the mistaken impression that long, cold New England winters hardened our characters "in a way that well prepares us for the real world." I dispute this. I am not well-prepared for the real world in general and winter in particular. Every year it swings around, and even in my 30s I greet it with a “Seriously? Again?”

Which is why I nearly clonked my head on the glass of my bodega's beer section last night upon spying this sprightly young thing clutching her gloveless hands close to her body in the midst of a blizzard. When I read the copy on the Smuttynose Winter Ale six-pack, I shook with rage.

Here’s to winter in New England: short days & long, cold nights; scratchy wool mufflers & soggy, wet boots; getting up early to dig your car out from under two feet of heavy, damp snow. Why do we do it? Hell, what else can we do? After all, the summer fun is over & the autumn leaves have fallen, winter draws out the best in our character & makes us long for something really strong & tasty to drink.

Your honor. First: "What else can we do?" A: Move South. Second: "Winter draws out the best in our character. A: O RLY? What New Englander have you met of whom this is true? The one shoveling out her car and cursing at 6am before her commute to Boston? The small child quaking in a 3-foot snowdrift? Find me a New Englander whose character is "best" this time of year and I will eat my fuzzy winter hat.

And let’s talk about this lass. Her car is buried in snow. The trees are covered. She has no mittens. Her sibling or husband has forced her to stand in the cold holding what look like to be delicious donuts or maybe pies but let's not get distracted here. “Hold still for the photo! Smile!"

The beer? Of course I had to buy one. I'm not a huge Smuttynose fan, and this brew did not change that fact. It's aiming to be a spicier version of Newcastle Brown, somewhere in the neighborhood of a Belgian dubbel. It’s a fairly innocuous brown ale, with a slight maltiness and a touch of cloves right at the end. There's zero hoppiness (and I'll admit to a bias towards hoppy ales), but at least the Smuttynose is way less “jazz hands” than its Harpoon counterpart, which has so much going on it is like sipping a potpourri shop.

But seriously. This poor woman. No gloves. And now I want donuts. The other day I was walking through the New Jersey PATH terminal, spied a Dunkin' Donuts, completely forgot where I was and zombied over in its direction. Do not wear neon-pink or orange gloves around me. I’d either bite your hand or try to dunk it in some coffee. Some things, they stay with you.