A Great Fit of Wasted Energy

I entered into this fall season dragging my feet. In a sense, I willfully filled the soles of my shoes with lead and resisted the change with a great fit of wasted energy.

Even with all my struggling, the sun's face shied away. I lost my early morning running routine, late evening opportunities for dinner outside in a sun dress, and the satisfaction of a chilled glass of white wine. It had been a peaceful, enjoyable summer, and I did not want to let it go.

I am ashamed to admit that it took me until November to recognize my full resistance. It took this long to release my grudges against 7 a.m. darkness and limited access to fresh flowers. It took being startled by the season's own unique beauty to realize the blindness I had been living in.







In my longing, I had ignored the transitions and gifts of September and October, and all of a sudden, November was here. It came with a strong, striking posture and commanded attention through explosions of color. Even though half the trees had unburdened themselves of brittle leaves by the time my eyes chose to see, there were still mosaics of yellow, brown, pink, and orange across the sidewalks my feet cross daily, and some of the most brilliantly yellow and red trees are holding on. (My favorite scene is bright coral pink leaves reaching up toward a grey sky. I could live in this color combination.)





The season had to change, and just as fall is threatening to call itself winter, I am opening up my palms and willingly receiving. I don't run as much as I did during the summer, but I walk to and from work everyday, and those half hour segments of time in which I simply cannot hurry along slow me down and force me to reflect, think, articulate, and observe.

I'm finding winter ales to an excellent replacement for those glasses of white wine. I don't get as many evening dinners with my roommates, but our household gatherings are all the more precious when they spontaneously come about.

Little by little, I am seeing why I don't want to be anywhere but in this season right now. Some moments, the contentment is pure enough to nestle in -- the enjoyment of one day helping me look forward to tomorrow without wishing myself there too quickly.

So, winter, I anticipate your mittens and mulled wine and snowy pine branches. These are going to be lovely when they arrive, but I'll count and file away each mental and photographic image of autumn until the day to say goodbye comes. I intend to make it swifter, more gratitude-filled, and less selfish than the last transition. Until then, who's up for pumpkin pie?

A soup story

I keep hoping that the more soup I make the more quickly autumn will come. This particular week I've been progressively working on one batch of soup.

I combined most the ingredients last Friday.
Ignored it through the weekend.
Ate a small bowl with my roomie for lunch Tuesday.
Dumped it in the blender with some squash and garlic on Wednesday night.
Sat down to enjoy a truly satisfying soup (topped with Gouda and toast) at 12 o'clock today.

Now allow me to back up and share the origins if this creation...

Once upon a time there was a large amount of great northern beans in the back of a resourceful college girl's fridge. They had been quite patient in awaiting their contribution to her menu but squirmed each time she opened the fridge in search of lunch or dinner. The girl noticed this, and it made her nervous as well because no matter how many beans she tossed into pasta or salad they remained an intimidating bunch.

Finally, one Friday evening she pushed past the feta, roasted red peppers, and yellow squash and grasped the smooth rounded surface of their tupperware. With no recipe before her, an otherwise by-the-books sort of girl sauteed some onions with olive oil in the bottom of a saucepan as she set to work chopping the remainder of her carrots and zucchini. Once the onions were soft, in went vegetable broth, carrots, zucchini, and the delighted beans. To avoid a novel, let us just say that the whole thing got a little overcooked and the cumin seeds that were sprinkled in became a little too potent.

Excitement died; outside the leaves appeared greener than ever; soup was forgotten.

Tuesday morning held the promise of fall. Fog descended upon the girl's town and with it all the sentiments that go along with most October days, including a desire for soup. So out came the humble combination of beans, veggies, broth, and cumin; it was heated in two bowls for two girls with hungry bellies. Both bellies and girls agreed the little soup was not a lost cause.

With half of a soft, warm acorn squash in one hand and garlic press in the other, Wednesday night a determined young woman set about rescuing her soup. She dumped the already soft zucchini and carrots along with beans, broth, and onion--oh, and cumin--into a blender and spooned in squash. A small amount of garlic added needed flavor. In no time at all the mixture was a beautiful yellow, like a fall sweater from anthropologie, and silky smooth.

As Texas typically behaves, the next day would not have been considered a "soup day" for it was once again sunny and warm. However, the woman found herself in a soup mood out of sheer curiosity. Would the simple medley of flavors and textures work? Just to make sure, she added two ingredients that never ever do harm: cheese and bread. And this is what she got...



It was quite a lovely ending to a long story!