The first time I made a fresh pumpkin pie, I was 19. I was in college at the time and, perhaps, seeking connection to something of my roots, being far away from home and nearing the holidays for the first time in my life. It felt so organic, this undertaking upon which I had embarked; even my mother never made a fresh pumpkin pie. I picked what I thought to be the perfect pumpkin, carefully scooping out the guts and separating out the seeds for later roasting, I baked the meat to golden perfection.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
I love crispy autumn days. I love the comfort of slumber through the procession of lengthening nights and how the depth of the places I visit in my dreams expands with the shortening of days. I love waking up to sleepy sunbeams as they meander dreamily through amber leaves moistened by the kiss of dew. I love the crimson maples dotting an evergreen landscape in fiery contrast. I love the excitement of making my way down a golden path adorned as if confetti offered in celebration of my arrival. I love the radiant glow of the moon, full against the backdrop of the clear evening’s sky.