Sharing stories of food stories we love.
A few questions for you to mull over today:
Why use one kind of chocolate when you could use two?
What the heck should you do with that half can of leftover pumpkin puree?
Is there a nicer feeling on a cold night than putting on clean pajamas after a hot shower?
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.
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Cooking in general is a nice form of meditation for me. I appreciate the quiet moments standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup or a sauté pan full of bits of golden garlic. That is, of course, when I have the luxury of cooking in a leisurely manner. As one who works from home, I usually do have that luxury.
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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.
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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.
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