The Rites of Fall

[In the interests of attitude adjustment, I'm going to write the ode to autumn that I was working out in my head yesterday before the Judgment Fairy took possession of my mind. It might be less entertaining to read than the rant I could be writing, but I hope that it will be more therapeutic for me, and less detrimental to my blood pressure.]

Ah, Autumn! For me, this is the season of renewal and rebirth, no matter what the silly poets (and several world religions) might say about spring. When the weather is hot and humid, my will to move, think, write, cook, speak and play decreases by about 75%. The sunshine gets up my nose and makes me sneeze, and all the blooming plants, while beautiful, are busily sending pollen-bombs toward my defenseless nasal passages, too. I get burnt if I go out without the sweater-in-a-bottle level of sunblock, and the sky looms relentlessly blue over me.

So with the coming of cool nights, thunderstorms, air you breathe rather than suck on, and daytime highs in the 70s, I feel like I've been released from nature's sweatbox, and have been let into her parlor, where I'll be offered a nice glass of milk and maybe some cookies. Mother Nature makes a damn fine gingersnap.

Maybe it's due to more than a dozen years spent returning to school in the Fall, but something in me always wants to start doing stuff this time of year. I want to learn, travel, cook, plan, or at least talk earnestly about things. This being the year that I began cooking for real, I’m naturally spending a lot of time and thought planning out great stuff to make. In the summer, nobody wants to eat chili or stew or heavy gravy-based foods, which are my forté, so now I get to start back in with all the comfort foods that come so naturally. A few days ago I made a lamb stew that started with a recipe from my Irish Pub cookbook. I tweaked it a bit, as is my wont, and it was so good that I wish I’d written down what I did. It was a “white stew,” which means that you don’t brown the meat -- you just throw everything in, add some liquid and cook it forever at a low temp. It also didn’t have (much) flour, so it ended up with more of a broth than a gravy, which was my sole excuse for doing it when the weather was still pretty hot.

My next move will probably be in the chicken-n-dumpling family, since that’s once of my favorites, or – oooh – maybe a pot pie, since I have a spare crust lingering in the freezer.

I also want to take long tramps through the woods with my fella and my dog, cozily wrapped in my tweeds and brogues, breathing crisp air laden with the tang of apples and wafts of wood-smoke. Then we’ll get back to the cabin and snuggle down with the cat and drink mulled wine in front of the fireplace. Oh, wait, I don’t have a fella, a dog, or a cat, let alone a cabin in the woods. And I don’t live in an Eddie Bauer advert.

But that’s always the image that this season brings to the surface of my mind, along with the more realistic expectations of football traffic, chapped lips, holey socks, and family-crazed holiday gatherings. And it’s the reality that I love, because it comes complete with that shade of blue that you only see in an Ohio sky in October, and the knowledge of absolute acceptance from my crazed family, and hot spiced cider, and a roof over my head, and apple picking, and pumpkin carving, and people to cook for. So, thanks, Mother Nature, for letting me make it through the summer so I can enjoy another beautiful Autumn. I'll try to use it wisely.