At this time of year there are many pauses and jams. All the ways we feather-line our nests for the impending cold bottleneck in a line as autumn stripes out foreheads and windowsills with warm round light. Too we may start our morning clutching tea and mittens, fiercely curled against ourselves to keep our heat close and end the afternoon basking on the porch drinking off what remains of our taste for summer pilsners, hefeweizens and imperial pale ales....
Still, amidst all this stop and go that chops up our good intentions to bed down and open our mouths into the cold, the thing that has not ceased is our thirst for walking. We will (when batteries and remembering permit) bring along a small sound recorder in one pocket to sop up a swathe of sound- mainly the crackle of marsh grass as they knock their heads together, or the whippy, tinny sound of wind across lead water. Harder though, is the ability to treasure hunt for the season has lain, in ropey hoops all about her feet, the standing dead growth, bracken and fallen leaf mulch of summer's defeat covering every minute bit of evidence we may otherwise showcase in our Real Science Pile. But this lady was lucky enough to be given the last gift of summer (!), a grapefruit size papery sphere of wasphouse, bedecked in season with a few remaining aspen leaves. After being assured there were no remaining wasps, stubborn and hermetic, holed up in there I was happy to usher in the end of one kind of space-inhabiting for the other. Mainly, giving up heat and haste for cold, wide light.
Additionally, there is for some reason a glut of eggs. Which is nice for those who are not Yolkaphobes to eat fried in a knob of butter with a snowy drift of hard cheese, the yolk still molten and chasing the fork. And nice also for those who are Yolkaphobes and prefer to swoon over the lofty, metamorphic intentions of eggs as they furiously puff up a souffle or a batch of popovers.
In any case, we are never a group that fails to celebrate an abundance of (snack-related) treasure! No matter what form that celebration may take.
Here is to hoping your own larder is well stocked for the onslaught of windhowls, that your eiderdowns are well aired and white as bleached bones and that your teapot is ready for a vigorous few months.
Cheers!
No comments:
Post a Comment