Autumn.  My favorite season.  It’s the most mysterious season.  It speaks of maturity, a turning inward from the height of summer.  I’m not a fan of summer.  It’s too darn hot.  And cliché.  Winter is deep immobile stillness.  Spring is child’s play.

The last week of September going into October is my favorite.  I live in Western New York, where the fall season is glorious.  It trumps all other autumn-worthy destinations, in my estimation.  The hillsides are large canvases of paintbrushed strokes…a sea of maroons, ambers, bronzes, and golden yellows.  If I had a monster pro camera to showcase it, I would.  Alas for no extra money and my cheap-o Canon.  What I can show you is this: 

We live on a seasonal road, and goldenrod is warm brilliance now.

Autumn is the season of my heart.  Molten change, brilliant burning.  Bittersweet effulgent voluptuousness.  It takes you over and tucks you in.  Smokey smells, musty rains, damp cover. 

I was supposed to go out Sunday.  Fleamarketing, Thai lunch, and the mall.  Man, I would’ve jumped at that last year.  Not so this time.  In my present, twelve hours of sleep for this insomniac and a house to myself is welcome luxury.

I keep thinking about last-year Marie and this-year Marie.  This-year Marie isn’t so outgoing or even joyful.  And not so much in denial. There is a turning in here also.  Reflection on streams of disarming thoughts and revelations.  I’m not sure what it all is pointing to exactly, but the gist is destiny calling.  I cry as realizations drop like little poignant bombs. 

My day was full of nothing in particular.  I’m wired differently than other people, I need alone time.  I need space to breathe.  Space to dance.  Space to sing.  Space to cook. 

I made pear pie.  I bought pears from an honor-system produce stand.  It’s housed in an abandoned building in one of those pinpoint towns which dot the Southern Tier so quaintly.  Two dollars!!!

When I cut them open, most of them were rotten inside.  Into the compost they went. 

I made the pie with this and that.  Demarara sugar.  Maple syrup and almond butter.

It came out small and good.  I used my usual Mennonite pie crust recipe.  With sprinklings of sugar and water, the edge was crunchy crisp.  The underneath was a little underdone.  It was also bit salty, probably due to the addition of almond butter.  I’ll try again and adjust on another quiet day.

I also made risotto.  I love rice.  And starches in general.  Especially in cold weather.  My favorite dish when I was little was chicken and rice with gravy.  I always went back for more rice.

I like to start with a base of butter and olive oil, adding in chopped onions or shallots.  I added a bit of prepared chicken demi-glace (simmered, it was a fancy shortcut!) and lots of water…stirring, stirring, stirring.

I added bacon and mushrooms fried in bacon fat with a bit of red wine vinegar.  The mushrooms & red wine vinegar lesson is from work.  I love them that way.

It all came together with goat cheese.  It was a dish I kept eating directly out of the pot.  Toe-curling good.  It was a good day.