Fall is probably my favorite season, next to Spring.
It’s been getting a little nippier in the air at night. I wish we had a fireplace. I love the smell of wood burning in a fireplace. I love curling up by a roaring fire with my favorite hand-woven Afghan blanket, wearing my long johns, woolly socks, and reading a good book. I love making hot chocolate with milk and real bars of chocolate. Homemade soups, stews, and chili in big pots; inviting friends over to help themselves, while we sit around in a huddle, happily dunking spoons in steaming bowls. Fresh baked bread. Hot spiced cider.
One thing I miss about living in the East Coast is the leaf colors. North Georgia gets some spectacular colors. My mother is lucky to live up in the Appalachian Mountains; the leaf colors draw so many people, that the hotels get booked up for weeks and the local news stations report “fall foliage reports” so people know when and where the peak color is. I remember walking home from school and kicking up the fallen leaves; the red, golden, and burgundy confetti flying in the air. My childhood dog would chase after me, snapping her teeth at the leaves, wiggling in glee, and rolling around in the leaves with me. We had several maple trees in our yard, and these were my favorite. They would go from green tinged with just a hint of pink, and the pink would darken and creep towards the center of the leaf – the leaves often reminded me of the colors of an African lovebird at first, and then they would be totally consumed with red, with golden creeping around the edges. Driving by church lawns full of pumpkins for sale. Apple picking at the local farms; apple fritters, apple cake, apple cider. The grocery stores stocking up on gourds, Indian corn, squashes, the last of summer’s vegetables, and cranberries.
Going back to school. New teachers, new textbooks, new classes, football games, shiny new pencils, new packs of notebook paper and new clothes.
Putting blankets on my horse at night, and mixing up hot oatmeal for him in the mornings, with chopped apples and some molasses. (Oh, how I spoiled my pony.)
When I lived in Italy, Fall was evident at first in the landscape. The sunflower and vegetable fields, which had recently been lush and green and ripe, were brown and golden and ecru as the crops were harvested and the remaining plants dried up. The land got plowed over before frost covered the ground. Grapes burst on their vines and were picked in October; olives were picked in November. Across the paessaggio, one began to see lazy wisps of smoke curling out of chimneys. The ristorantes and trattorias changed their menus; wild boar (cinghale) was in season and one could hear the gunshots coming from the hills as the hunters went about. Cinghale sausages were abundant; as were bean soups, the most popular being ribollita, a medieval recipe for Tuscan bread and vegetable soup. Kale and other dark, green leafy vegetables, and winter squashes and potatoes found their way in the market stalls, replacing the raspberries, cherries, tomatoes, zucchini flowers, and green beans of summer. We took baskets in the woods and hunted for white truffles and porcini mushrooms with a wrinkled old lady named Giuliana – qui, là, no, non buon, non buon! Ah, buona!, she would direct us. The town had a porcini mushroom festival, and then a steak festival as the farmers started slaughtering the prized white Valdichiana bulls for bissteca alla Fiorentina. The chestnut trees spit out shiny, glossy brown nuggets that rolled down the hill, got caught in the spaces between the medieval cobblestones, and gathered in corners in bright mahogany piles. Persimmon trees burst forth their bright orange fruits, walnut trees dropped their ripe nuts, and a ghostlike nebbia (fog) rose from the valley every morning and crept throughout the streets.
This morning, I had an early appointment in the Presidio. A fog rolled in off the Pacific, and the ginkgo trees sprayed forth brilliant golden colors. After my appointment, I went to the Farmer’s Market. There were still plenty of summer vegetables, but also pumpkins and gourds, and corn, and grapes, and chestnuts. And purple carrots. I got some fresh salad mix, a carton of cherry tomatoes for 75 cents, and stopped by the grape stand. I asked the guy for $2 worth of firm, juicy, seedless black grapes; he handed me $3 worth of grapes with a wink.
I want to buy a chenille blanket. I want to go shopping for sweaters, and I want a pumpkin. I want to build a campfire on the beach and eat homemade chili with fresh cornbread.
I want to see beautiful red and gold leaves. I promise myself, next year, I will make a trip to Vermont to see the leaves change color.
I think I’m going to make 15-bean soup, roast chicken, and apple fritters this weekend.
In the meantime, I can look at these pictures and sigh.
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