When I was a kid these two things sitting on the stove would send me racing around the house looking for my mother so I could ask her what she was going to bake. My life is full of moments when I feel my mother in my hands; the way I bump the broom on the floor in between sweeps in order to shake off the dust, the way I snap laundry before I fold it, my habit of tearing absolutely everything to shreds before it goes in the recycling, no matter how many times I have had to dig through puzzle pieces of paper for something I needed that I thought I didn't. Putting butter out to soften is one of those things. And yes mum, I save the wrappers for greasing pans, folded into neat squares and piled in the butter compartment of the fridge, just like you. I love you to the moon and back, have I told you that lately?
The weather is turning and turning here. The chickens are laying fewer eggs, the windows in the house are closed as often as open, and the peach tree is sending down stray yellow leaves, long yellow fingers scattered around the front yard. The garden is offering up its last beans and eggplant and peppers, turning back into a sea of greens: kales, chard, broccoli, beets, lettuces, arugula, cabbage, cauliflower. Soon it will be time to plant the garlic again. We hauled home our first bushel of apples last weekend, and yesterday I warmed myself over a huge pot of applesauce, now that is the smell of fall. B and I are tucking into the darkening evenings, playing music after supper until we turn in. It will be flannel sheet time before we know it.
Be warm out there.