I don’t know why, but every time it starts snowing, my brain immediately goes: fried chicken.
Not soup. Not hot pot. Just fried chicken.

And honestly? Snowy days don’t even feel that cold to me.
The snow makes everything quieter, softer.
You walk outside and it’s like the city is on mute.

That’s when fried chicken hits different.
Crispy on the outside, hot on the inside, steam coming out when you open the box.
Sitting by the window, watching snow fall, fingers a little greasy, zero regrets.

Snow + fried chicken = peak winter mood.
If it’s snowing and I’m not eating fried chicken, something feels wrong.