Today:

it is raining again, but I suppose that’s because I’m in Cambridge. How does one enjoy fall when the leaves can hardly fall from the trees of their own volition. I demand a recall of how the month of November has gone so far. I want brisk air, crinkly leaves and pumpkin-smells. I don’t want gale force winds, soggy leaves or rain. Come on Mother Nature. This is the prettiest time of the year…why do I see so much gray? I want to rake leaves into a pile and jump into it, completely disregarding the possibility of sticks and bugs lying beneath the surface. I want to make a nest and take a nap in it. A layer of dry leaves act as excellent insulators from the cold. And when I go inside, I want to smell cinnamon and apples and crust, because there is already one pie in the oven and another two sitting on top of the counter, patiently waiting to be baked. I want dinner to be lasagna and green beans and acorn squash, cut in half and cooked under the broiler with butter and brown sugar and cinnamon in its cavity. I want to roast its seeds, alongside the apple pies, and coat them with rosemary and sea salt. I miss Connecticut in the fall.