The road to sourdough from cheechako received another setback Thursday. My snowplow guy had not yet cleaned my driveway, but somehow, I made my little Jeep barrel over ice and deep snow right up to the garage door.

Right that moment, I felt pride. And we all know what pride goes before. Yep, once more this cheechako became the Fall Guy.

Here’s what went down. I clicked the garage opener and parked the car inside just as a substitute snowplow driver set to work.

I reheated a skillet of potatoes and salmon and finished as the driver made the last scrape.

Now here is where my big mistake came. Maybe I’ve come to think that being a sourdough somehow equates to undressing to the max in freezing temperatures and then showing up to shop at Fred Meyer in cutoff shorts, T- shirt and running shoes. I haven’t seen anyone shop Fred’s in thongs and sandals but, note to self, there’s still two more months of winter ahead.

Anyway, I popped a C-note into an envelope and went outside through the garage door hatless and coatless to pay the driver.

Click. Oh, no. The door I thought would stay open took a strong gust of wind and shut. My main set of keys was, you guessed it, inside my coat now sitting comfortably on a fancy Alaska-themed coat hook.

I told the driver what I did. He and I tried both garage doors. They wouldn’t budge.

This is where I start to believe in a kind and benevolent deity. Every day I throw spare change into my pocket for my one allowed Diet Coke a day. Miracle of miracles, in the middle of dimes and quarters reposed a spare key I’d never used. I tried the first door. No fit. I tried the second door. Same deal. The third door was the charm, and I set the snowplow man free and put on hot tea the second I entered the kitchen.