I just wanted to say how thrilled I am that fall is coming.
The Northeast is a great place to be right now. Not that it wasn't great in the northwest in september. It was. But everyone here seems to be in agreement. Summer is ok, but we are northeasterners, and fall is ours. That goes double for Quebecers: Summer is good, fall is better, but winter is ours. The mood lightens. A fog lifts from my head as I can see out of the oppression that is summer.
Now is the time to eat. That's the big thing. Now is the time to get out the crock pot. It's time for chili. It's time for stew. When I see the back end of county Fair season, it's time to boil the hell out of whatever animal it was that won the blue ribbon.
This is what floats on the back of my eyes:
My mother has cleaned the entire house (well, we helped). This time, she mopped the floors. It smells like pine sol. The dishwasher is steaming. She is listening to Edvard Grieg on our giant Magnavox stereo console, in imitation walnut. The fabric that covers the speakers is littered with holes I poked, because the popping sound it so satisfying.
Soon we can smell something oniony, possibly chicken and dumplings or tamale pie. That mingles with the smell of the apples that I brought in from the garage, so mom can make a pie. We always have a big box of apples in the garage in the fall.
That's it. I don't remember the battle to decide who sets the table and who washes the dishes, or my dad yelling at us to help my mom clean the living room. I'm glad my brain allows for that. That way, when September comes, I am comforted and I am back in that living room, lying on the orange semi-shag carpet, listening to Peer Gynt, waiting to have that chicken.