Well, in spite of the way it feels when I leave work in the afternoon, I suppose Fall is here. I know because the calendar says it, and because we are busy baking yeast cakes at work. I am also working for the winery, doing holiday tastings for the Jewish New Year, and there are a lot of advertisements for High Holiday apartment rentals on the Anglo listserve.
In other words, all signs point to summer being over and to a new season beginning.
But this is not Fall.
Part of me wants to tell myself to embrace the so-called change-of-season; enjoy the green clementines at the shuk, bake some honey and apple cakes, roll some rodanchas, and make our meal plans for all the festivities to come. But another part of me wants to get into our non-existent car and drive to New Hampshire where I can pick apples, (wrapped in a cozy sweater, eating them out of the bag as I go), then stop off at a farm stand for some pumpkins and squash, and return home to 99 Evans with more Fall bounty than I know what to do with, to begin the task of making pumpkin stews and mini tea breads for everyone I know.
Yes, I know it’s normal to feel homesick, and I will not be nearly as envious of my New England friends and family when December arrives and they are digging their way out the door, armed with shovels, ice picks and fleeces. But at the moment that seems like a fair price to pay for some crisp air, red-orange leaves and the hope of finally finishing that scarf I’ve been knitting for the past 4 years.
Happy Fall (?)