My feet are tired

My back hurts.

My hands don't work very well, having deconstructed at least 40 cardboard boxes today.

And I have a freakin' bandaid wrapped around the tip of my wedding ring finger, making it very difficult to type coherently. (Note: This is an issue completely unrelated to the spice trade. . . an unfortunate misdirection of a kitchen knife a few days back. But still... this bandaid.)

Today, along with 2 co-workers, I helped 164 people buy spices and herbs (well, in journalistic accuracy, probably 162, because 2 people came back, having forgotten something they needed) at my  spice shop hobby job.

I am semi-prostrate/semi-paralyzed on the living room floor. . . and smiling.

Because September 30 may be the most magical day in the world and history of spices and herbs. It is the day that seems to give us all permission to let go of summer's light, ethereal, instant meals of fresh produce and protein and start thinking of fall (and winter) -- of the things we make, consume, store and hoard that are rich and savory, family and tribal, traditional, enduring, filling, all dependent on a redolent pathway of spices and herbs that keeps us sane during the shadowed days and nights of winter kitchens.

Customers today were making caraway cookies from an 1850s hand-written recipe. . . 15 pounds of sausage. . . watermelon-pickled zucchini. . . homemade mustards. . . limoncello. . . caramelized-onion gravy. . . pots of chili and platters of enchiladas. . . roasted-tomato sauces. . . pies (apple pies!). . . hot chocolate. . . pot roasts. . .  secret-family-recipe soups,  stews and goulashes. . . stuffed peppers and cabbages. . . and, oh so many oven-roasted autumn gifts: onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets, carrots. The energy of cooking in fall/winter is dynamic - sometimes a comfy blanket, sometimes something that wakes us up from the sleepiness of meatloaf.

Tonight. I'm temporarily paralyzed. But already thinking about making my own mustard. And split pea soup. Picked up the ham bone today.

Let there be light

Ah me, it's getting dark early these days. Here's a just a titch of what might get me through the next few months.

This is. . .

Baird:

Two months old and counting, Baird made an appearance at Soup Night last night. What a rascal.

He's not the first Soup Night grandchild, BUT the first, I believe, to be residing in Bermtopia and able to partake in our festivities. 'Tis a privilege to host a little wee-ness like himself.

It will come as no surprise -- Baird got a lot of Soup Night love. Then a well-deserved rest when we started consuming soup.

Hello, Baird. Welcome to Soup Night. And welcome to Bermtopia.

P.S. Baird -- your dad scored some serious heirloom tomato seeds last night, including Tigerella! -- remember your roots!

So to speak.

My kitchen junk drawer:

Which needs some serious organizing. And perhaps a sexier name. To be continued.

And Fall: And we all know what that means.

New shoes

The weather window has finally cracked, letting cool fall air settle down over Bermtopia. Mornings in the mid- to upper 30s -- and a burgeoning calendar of meetings with college faculty and administrators -- has resulted in the perfect storm that can only result in one thing. Shoes.

My beloved Keen sandals are back in the closet. . . tennis shoes in the garage, on call for dogwalking in the park. And I've cracked open my supply of socks and "grown-up shoes."

(I refuse to wear socks with sandals. It just seems to smack of some ancient hapless, hippy lost in the 70s. I have met the 70s and they are me -- just not wearing socks with sandals.)

I don't mind wearing shoes. Done it all my life. But, after living in sandals all summer, there is something out-of-body about wearing "grown-up shoes" for the first time. And my first out-of-body shoe experience this fall occurred during a meeting at work a few days ago. I was bobbing my foot up and down (probably wondering whether the damn pow wow would ever end) and suddenly realized my foot was -- well, HEAVY. That there actually was something attached to my ankle. Surrounded by warm, rigid leather. Fascinated by this unexpected sensation, I wiggled my toes, feeling the bunching of sock against the upper part my shoe. I rotated my ankles, tapped one foot on top of the other, reaquainting nerve and muscle with the concept of "grown-up shoes."

I probably looked like a 3-year-old about to pee in church. But that's another topic.

Why do I write about this? I'm not quite sure.

Maybe it's yet another acknowledgment that the seasons are changing -- and so must I. Along with my shoes.

Amputating a pumpkin 1

Today, I managed to sever Pumpkin 3's lifeline to the mother ship. In other words, I accidentally cut the vine that connects it to the rest of the GD plant. I was bushwhacking my out-of-control heliopsis (or "yellow flowers" as they're more commonly called) and, oops, it was clipped. Dang. And it was starting to turn orange as fate would have it.

After a few choice words, I accepted P3's mortal blow. Accidents can and do happen in a garden. It is, after all, a jungle out there.

And, of course, even without accidents, a plant's life is essentially transient anyway.

With an silent apology, I gently placed P3 next to the garden waste I would dispose of later and went back to work.

And of course got to thinking. Was it even remotely possible P3 might go from green to orange without root and water? What would happen if he just sat quietly in a warm, sunny spot for a week or so? (Once Junior started to change color, the process went FAST.) Even better, what would happen if P3 somehow stayed hydrated, nourished AND sat in a warm, sunny spot for a week or so?

Curiosity, along with necessity, is a worthy mother of invention. Out came a coffee can, in went water with a generous pinch of plant food. A small flower pot was commissioned to serve as hospital bed, and voila! I started a pumpkin IV. A narrow concrete walk in a sunny corner of the backyard (all the better to absorb and store sunlight) is the temporary ICU.

Pray the rosary. Send a memo to the deity du jour. Make a small sacrifice to the pumpkin gods. For my green pumpkin on life support.

September 1

I can't tell you the number of Bermtopians who are asking, "How can it be September 1 already?" They seem vaguely perplexed by this turn of events.

It's not a rhetorical question. Here in Bermtopia, I think it's safe to say many of us are simply stunned that summer proper ended last night. Schools have already started. Halloween inventory is popping up everwhere. Football and soccer practice are underway. Where did summer go? And who are these people who seem so intent on shoving it out the back door with an undeserved -- but well-placed -- kick in the patoot?

I think the rank and file of us handle the change of months quite well. We understand the concept of days, weeks, months and years. But September 1 pulls you up for a moment.

September 1 means the bona fide summer months of June, July and August are gone and unretrievable -- except in photos madly snapped at barbecues and family weddings.

Yes, yes, I know all about Indian summer (aka September and October), how beautiful it us, the gorgeous colors, apple picking at Greenbluff, football games at Albi, blah, blah, bloody blah. It's all somewhat romanticized. The reality is, I have to turn on lights around the house in the morning and I'm losing valuable daylight each night, the light I use for gardening and hitting golf balls. And most of the time now, I'm wearing a long-sleeve cotton shirt when I take Ben out for his morning walk. We all know what September 1 means.

Nevertheless, I am pulling up my seasonal big-girl pants and getting on with it. There are soup nights to plan, pumpkins to harvest, holidays to anticipate.

But -- we all know what September 1 means.