Full disclosure: My birthday is March 20, and you’re welcome to bake me a cake if you like. I accept vanilla with seven-minute frosting, raspberry mousse layer cake, and anything with passionfruit.

As it is months away from the blessed event, you might say: “Po, really no need to be making birthday cake anything. Just stick with the calendar and lean into fall and bake pumpkin…everything.”

A few questions for you to mull over today:

1. Why use one kind of chocolate when you could use two?

2. What the heck should you do with that half can of leftover pumpkin puree?

3. Is there a nicer feeling on a cold night than putting on clean pajamas after a hot shower?

Gold everywhere today: Golden sun glistening off the mirrored sides of the skyscrapers that tower over Central Park. Yellow leaves crowning the trees that line the running paths. The brilliant hue of my turmeric latte, spicy with ginger and sweet with vanilla bean. It stains my fingers when I spill it slightly as I hurry to cross 79th Street at Columbus Avenue, so intent am I on avoiding the throngs of marathon finishers spilling out of Central Park into the city. I stop to finish the last few sips of my drink, then look up to find myself in front of the apple stand at the farmers’ market that pops up on Sundays behind the American Museum of Natural History.

The leaves are slowly turning color. I drove up to Vermont last week and woke up to a 40-degree day: bright and crisp and cold. The air stung my lungs as I walked to my car, breathing in the smell of fall.

Tomorrow is Halloween, and is forecast to be 70 degrees in New York, so maybe I’ll dress up as a very pale person trying to get a tiny late season suntan HA. I like the changing of the seasons so much. It makes my heart swell every time, every year. As soon as I sense the bellwether of seasonal shifts—a whiff of woodsmoke drifting lazily through the breeze, the sign saying “hot apple cider” at the coffee shop, the feel of a flannel shirt—and all the accumulated memories of that season rush back to me.

Rain sluiced down in heavy sheets all day yesterday. “It’s like standing in the shower,” the woman next to me in the coffee shop this morning said to her friend as they debated whether to wait it out or make a run for it. We were crowded against the door, huddled together as people entered and exited, peeling off damp raincoats and stowing dripping umbrellas in the corner.

A recent post on Cup of Jo talked about simple pleasures: small things that light you up, make you feel comfortable, bring you joy. Her list included kettle chips, getting into clean sheets after shaving your legs, and the grassy waves at Storm King.

The comment section on the post (which numbers over 500!) is beautiful and exceptional and so joy-inducing in and of itself that I’ve promised myself to return to read every single one, bit by bit, whenever I’m in need of a pick-me-up (or just a reminder that life is just brimming with the possibility of beauty at every turn, around every corner).

This time of year is a favorite of mine. The weather is changing, but only slightly. The air is turning from the warm humidity of summer—the sort that feels swollen and supple and tangible almost—to the crispness of autumn. But it’s still warm enough to wear shorts and sit outside in the sun. Just yesterday I bought two pears and an apple at the farmers’ market, crunching on one as I walked the ten blocks to pick up my car from getting serviced.

Have you heard about the famous Marian Burros plum torte recipe? For 6 years starting in 1983, the New York Times ran the cake recipe before deciding it was enough exposure and putting a stop to the nonsense…or so they thought, until people rioted (kidding, but actually it sounds like they sort of did) and demanded its return. I’m with that crowd, because the cake is really and truly a keeper. Not only is it fantastic as is but it can handle just about any tweaking you can come up with. No plums? Use berries! Don’t feel like cinnamon? Try pear and cardamom. Want a sandier texture? Add a little cornmeal.

Eclairs always looked so darn fancy to me when I was little. Honestly, they seemed almost too fussy for a five-year-old with an extreme sweet tooth. Give me frosting! Give me an ice cream cone! Give me an entire g-d sleeve of Oreos and leave me alone for 20 minutes! But I like to think I've become far more mature and sophisticated in my ripe old age, and my appreciation for eclairs has deepened.

On the subject of comfort food, my mother is really an expert. Sure, I'm biased, but I think anyone who took a bite of her creamy broccoli pasta or had a slice of her potato bread, warm from the oven with a pat of fresh raw milk butter melting on top, would agree. But beyond the broad strokes genre, the real definition of comfort food is unique to each of us—specific and tied to our own particular memories and experiences and places.