A golden flurry of walnut leaves fills my backyard—they are always the first to go.
Mornings are nippy; coffee tastes good.
Tomato sauce boils over on my stove.
I am sick of canning. A few dried beans today and then I am done for the year, and I say Good Riddance, though I’m happy with the resulting shelves of goodness.
I finely diced a whole quart of onions (don’t you love when a recipe says finely diced?)—and cried more than I’d cried over anything for weeks and weeks. I shooed everyone out of the kitchen before it got bad—but Ryan still felt the fumes in his nose and throat and made me pay for it. He said rather loftily that he thought it was more the novelty of homemade salsa than any real superiority. I said, “You shoulda been cutting them if you think you had it bad.” We ate the exquisite flavors in stony silence.
It was the next day at lunch, eating it cold with chips, that we laughed. This was after I lured him back to bed with me and right before I spilled coffee over his pants. Sometimes I think I am a high maintenance wife.
Harvest. The clouds wear a brooding look found only in September skies. The children load their backpacks every morning. We hear rumors of snow in the west.
I feel fully alive in the fall.