The air is cooling and you can nearly smell the season changing in the breeze. We were out walking last night and saw the most amazing, blood red crescent moon hovering above the Olympic Mountains. It’s like fall is standing behind this thin and gauzy curtain, ripe and ready to jump out at us, so psyched that it keeps letting out little fall farts that end up ruining the surprise.
Fall is my favorite. It gets cold at night and in the morning, and you get to wear sweaters that have been put out of mind since winter. You get that glorious display of turning leaves, but even better than that I think is the constant autumn smell – woodsy and spicy, somewhat feral and comfortable all at the same time. And those brisk, partly cloudy days where you just want to walk somewhere and get soup.
I don’t know what it is, but fall always puts me in this romantic mode of baking things and making soup. Even now I have these grand notions of large bubbling pots of homemade soup that just make you close your eyes and smile when you taste them. And rustic breads and pies. Now I’ve baked some bread, but never once have I attempted a pie. I cannot explain it, but I have it in my head that I’m going bake me a shit load of blackberry pies this fall; and apple pies.
And I’m already looking forward to those cold, dark and rainy days where I’m gonna cuddle up all cozy with Biff and the cats and slowly get up to drink coffee and cider. Maybe play some cards while we listen to “Preaching the Blues” on KEXP, eat some pie…
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