Running out of Werther’s hard caramels doesn’t qualify as an earth-shattering crisis. Unless the only hard candy left in the house are the candy canes hanging on the Christmas tree. And they of course contain sugar. I’m supposed to limit my sugar intake.

Werther’s, a German company, has been making their butterscotch-flavored morsel since 1909. They sell their candies in 100 countries. Here in the States, the candy has developed a reputation as a senior citizen favorite. Last Christmas, my grandson, Malcolm, said my candy dish was full of “old lady candy.” I noticed that didn’t stop him from raiding it three or four times a day.

In 2005, Werther’s developed a sugar-free version. To me, it tastes like the real deal. In fact, I recently indulged in a gold-wrapped Werther’s “original” and didn’t like it as well. The sugar-free version satisfies my raging sweet tooth and has become a staple in our pantry. And candy dish. And on my nightstand. And in my purse. And in my car. But, last Saturday night, as the big storm arrived, I somehow, inexplicably, ran out.

I searched all the usual stashes. I checked jacket pockets, my purse, and two totes. Nada. Around midnight, I braved the plunging temperature and headed to my car in the driveway. I checked all the deep corners of my car console and under the seats. I found one. I ate it while I continued to search, but that was it. And Walmart closed at 11:00 p.m.

Horrors! NO! This CANNOT be happening. Then I had a brilliant idea. Check Walmart online for availability. Ta-da! They have it in stock locally and will have it ready for pickup or delivery. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t deliver a sack of hard candy at 1:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, so I ordered it for pickup. Late morning pickup. Ever the optimist, despite heavy storm warnings, I thought Dear Richard or I could scoot out to the Walmart pickup line in the morning for my emergency supply. I took my evening meds, ate a candy cane, and went to bed.

Sunday morning, the snow was blowing sideways, and the temperature was single digit. One look outside ruled out any idea of driving to Walmart. Early afternoon, the man who occasionally plows for us called. “I’m going to be in the neighborhood on another call. Do you want me to plow?” Normally, we would wait until the snow stopped but we already had 8 inches. And it meant we had to move our cars.

With my polar parka over my pajamas, I could barely push open the storm door. I cleared a path to the car and had it running while I cleaned it off. The fine snow was light but deep and easy to move. Hey, wait a minute, I’m out here and the car is running. Why not just hop in and drive to Walmart? It’s only 4 miles. How bad can it be? Sometimes “ever the optimist” is short on common sense. Dear Richard weighed in, “You’re crazy.” It’s always nice to have encouragement.

The snow was wildly swirling, but the car was warm. Glade Township plows had been through early – they’re always good – but they hadn’t returned yet. Any sand was inches below. As I accelerated, I fishtailed. My speed for those 4 miles was 22 mph. Visibility was low but adequate. Enough for me to drive the tracks along the middle of the road. I only met two oncoming cars and tried not to panic as I pulled to the right. I had no idea where the berm was. Route 62 was slightly better but still deep in snow.

The guys at Walmart pickup were great, although they had to be freezing. The snow kept blowing. Maybe they knew a damsel in distress when they saw one. They didn’t comment on my pajamas – or the fact that I tore open my bag of Werther’s immediately. Ahhh.

On the drive home the snow seemed even deeper. And I drove even slower – 18 mph. But I didn’t mind. I sucked on my hard caramel all the way home and would have driven at 5 mph as long as I had the comfort of that 6-calorie treat. The half hour roundtrip was well spent.

And Sunday afternoon I learned what a great combo a Werther’s, a cup of hot coffee, and fuzzy slippers is. The storm continued to rage outside our snug den and my sweet tooth was finally quiet … and happy.

Those Germans understand cold comfort.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her cozy den in Warren, Pa.