October Wherever We Are
With gratitude to my readers
October. That golden hour of the year, red hues of a lowering light tinging fallen apples with amber as dusk descends. The air smells like woodsmoke, sounds like sweet brown wrens scratching amongst the dried leaves under gurggling gutters, and feels like thick hand knit sweaters, rough and comforting.
All I really want to do in those brisk autumn mornings, after acknowledging the moon’s reluctant disappearance into an illuminating sky, is pad into the quiet kitchen, crack kindling for a fire, and gently tip my risen sourdough onto the counter. At least one cat will weave between my feet, and the tea kettle will be warming. As tired as I am the evening before, I’m always grateful for the kneading I did before heading to bed, and for the wonder of a billowy dough in the proofing box. I’m especially grateful if it’s early enough to promise cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and feel slightly queen-like when I offer them to my children still rubbing their eyes from s…