As Tuesday’s storm forecast grew ominous over the weekend, devotees of Boston’s social media activated the “French Toast Alert,” a system that Universal Hub editor Adam Gaffin has used for years to help Bostonians gauge the level of panic they should apply to gathering weather threats— and let them know when they should rush to the store to buy milk, eggs, and bread.

On Sunday, when the National Weather Service predicted that 7 to 13 inches of snow would hit the city, Gaffin’s alert was set to “Four Slices High.”

On Monday morning, the consensus opinion of meteorologists prompted statewide school cancellations and government warnings that employees should stay home on Tuesday.

As we all now know, the storm tracked well south of the path that experts had predicted as late as Monday night, and the precipitation across the city on Tuesday was a mix of rain, light snow, and some sleet before ending in mid-afternoon. It was a snow day without much snow for most everyone in the Boston area, including members of the Reporter’s staff, who accelerated our production schedule on Monday and largely stayed home and worked remotely on Tuesday.

French toast was on the menu that morning for many of us, but not all. Our long-time neighbor, Carol Owens, spoke from home by phone: “I would love to make French toast for myself, but I’m allergic to eggs and I’m gluten sensitive. So, I make a big beef stew – that is my version of French toast.”

Owens stayed and worked from home on Tuesday under a “hybrid” policy at her office: “I think we’ve all had the experience of a surprise snowstorm that caught us in so much traffic and it took hours to get home, driving or on the subway. So, I understand the caution, but it’s kind of ironic. It’s not accurately a ‘no school day’ for me because we work; anyone who’s approved to work hybrid is working hybrid.”

Like many of us who enjoy the full spectrum of New England seasons, Owens was “kind of sad that we’re missing this snow. Of course,” she added, “I live in a building now that I don’t have to shovel anymore, and my car is parked underneath the building. So, snowstorms are like a joy for me, not a labor situation. But I look at this weather, I think about, you know, climate change, really.”

The French Toast alerts harken to memories of real food shortages during weather events, like 46 years ago in the winter of 1978, when martial law was declared after the epic four-day blizzard that cost many people their lives and left an indelible mark on those who, like Owens, lived through it,.

“My late dad’s birthday was Feb. 8. We were still feeling the effects of the blizzard of ‘78 on his birthday, and our family joke for years was, ‘Dad, we all got together and got you a blizzard for your birthday.’ That year was my dad’s 50th birthday. “We lived at the top of Codman Hill and had to get dug out by the National Guard. There was so much snow that there were drifts, and a bare spot under the kitchen windows of the first-floor apartment in the two-family we lived in.”

After Carol and her siblings cleared just enough snow for a few hours with her aunt and father, they went back inside to find that their mom had cooked up an enormous beef stew. That likely explains her preferred alternative to French toast.

“By the time my dad’s birthday came around, we had lost electricity for a couple of days after the storm. And it was memorable to have a candle-lit 50th birthday party for my dad. And at that point, we were out of milk, so my two older sisters had to schlep down to a market in Lower Mills and they got condensed milk. So, my mom made my dad’s birthday cake with condensed milk—for her it was like World War II, you know?”

From this snowless vantage point, the blizzard of ‘78 triggers mostly fond memories. “Some of it is nostalgia,” Carol thinks. “I mean, I actually enjoy a good snowstorm, and there’s nothing like going out for a beautiful walk in newly fallen snow if it’s not sleeting on you. You know what I mean? Once the storm was over, it’s usually beautiful.”