realizations...
next week is November. What happened to all those lazy summer days full of tomatoes and corn with hand churned ice cream- blueberries tossed in for the last few minutes- eaten standing outside juice dripping down grinning chin and no napkins in sight? Next week is November. Time for hard squash, roasted Brussels sprouts, mulled cider, hot chocolate and 400# of turkey to arrive in two weeks.
Thanksgiving already. The menu is set. Order forms being developed. Preview day is scheduled. Boxes being ordered for pie. Shite, pie. Last year it was over 250. This year? Who knows. This year we will not be doing the overnight bake. This year we will be compromising and not making the crust ourselves. This year we will be taking advance orders. This year we will be baking instead of the bakers. And mixing and recipe developing and packaging and labeling and waking up to do it all again. Next week is November.
Did I say that already? Let me say it again. Next week is November. The holiday season is upon us and I still have not eaten an ear of local corn. Am I burnt? Crispy? Frustrated? Tired? Feeling alone? I love autumn. I miss writing. The low sun lighting up tree tops flaming with all hues of crimson orange yellow gold mustard green glimpsed briefly. Strange random drives on days off looking at trunks lining Ichabod Crane worthy roads that appear to have been paved over remaining foot paths. Given the time, I fall in love with this valley again.
Realizations? I realize that I am tired of feeling like I am doing too much alone. Realizing that the partner is not now able to partner. Realizing that the funk I am in will lift when there is green again. Realizing that I cannot live without this up and down that defines good days from bad. Meanwhile, there is the glow from that low sun lighting up the under limbs accompanying me on the drive home. Next week is November...
Thanksgiving already. The menu is set. Order forms being developed. Preview day is scheduled. Boxes being ordered for pie. Shite, pie. Last year it was over 250. This year? Who knows. This year we will not be doing the overnight bake. This year we will be compromising and not making the crust ourselves. This year we will be taking advance orders. This year we will be baking instead of the bakers. And mixing and recipe developing and packaging and labeling and waking up to do it all again. Next week is November.
Did I say that already? Let me say it again. Next week is November. The holiday season is upon us and I still have not eaten an ear of local corn. Am I burnt? Crispy? Frustrated? Tired? Feeling alone? I love autumn. I miss writing. The low sun lighting up tree tops flaming with all hues of crimson orange yellow gold mustard green glimpsed briefly. Strange random drives on days off looking at trunks lining Ichabod Crane worthy roads that appear to have been paved over remaining foot paths. Given the time, I fall in love with this valley again.
Realizations? I realize that I am tired of feeling like I am doing too much alone. Realizing that the partner is not now able to partner. Realizing that the funk I am in will lift when there is green again. Realizing that I cannot live without this up and down that defines good days from bad. Meanwhile, there is the glow from that low sun lighting up the under limbs accompanying me on the drive home. Next week is November...
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