I do love the light, so these Northern nights from this day until spring when darkness comes early feel strange and heavy, like a too-warm blanket pulled over my head. Where has the world gone? In the daytime now, the color is drained, but it's still at least beige or brown. At six o'clock, everything out my window is black.
But six o'clock also means dinner, and as I enter into this season, I understand why a warm November meal on the table is good for the spirit. Green beans. Yellow butter. Gold bread. Red apples. Meat that is juicy and tender and white.
And then there is this: a pumpkin pie. The orange of autumn. The orange of full fields glowing under the sun. An end-of-harvest melon that grows plump enough to feed multiple mouths, returning to the kitchen and the evening ripe light. A gift.
With my mother, I covered my hands with flour this weekend. I mixed and pressed and crimped and measured and added and stirred and poured and smoothed. I turned on the oven. I set the flaky pastry and the golden center into heat. As it baked, spices filled the air, and confidence. And as we ate, warmth entered our bodies, and we did not notice the sinking sun.