Just the other evening after I had decided to treat myself to a leisurely drive up and down the county roads, when the air was beginning to go from summer cool to early autumn chill, I couldn’t help but begin to think about my life, my past and my consistent, recurring relationship with the upcoming season—fall.
That night I had walked out onto my front porch and looked out to my right, where I can see the curvaceous crests of deciduous tree tops which create the peaks of Southeastern Ohio’s mountains. Sparsely speckled and just barely visible to those with a keen eye are the early bloomers of those trees, the ones who find the charms of autumn before their peers, those who stand out from the crowd who were slowly beginning to turn from lush green to muted brown and longing for blazon red. That night, those trees were glowing orange in the dying ember of sun dipping into night fall and sinking quickly behind the far off hills. Keys in my hand, I walked down my front steps onto the sidewalk where I unexpectedly stepped on top of a few, lonely, fallen dry leaves and after hearing the crunch beneath the soft bottoms of my trendy slipper-like shoes, I instinctively inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the cool night air and the smell of fall emanating up from beneath my toes. I got in my car and took off to the west, up a winding state road, up, up and over that ridge top I could see from my porch, chasing the sun in a hopelessly romantic attempt to make the perfection of that evening last as long as possible. When I got to the peak and let my car follow the peaks and valleys of the road, hugging the voluptuous natural landscape, I had succeeded and for a few moments longer I basked in the glorious hues of what was the beginning of an illustrious affair I have year, after year, after year.
When I thought back on my past, on my history of love and relationships, I noticed one commonality: Every time I’ve found myself falling in love, it has always happened in autumn. I thought of this the other night, when I was out driving, punch drunk on life itself and the beauty that surrounded me. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about the notion of falling in love with fall itself. I do it every year. It’s like people who have summer flings, like teenagers who fall sweetly in love on salty boardwalks and crowded beaches. I’ve never had an experience like that, but for me, my annual renewal of spirit, love, and passion comes in late August and lasts until flakes of sweet tasting early snow fall onto trees dangling a few remnants of their dry, brown, crinkled leaves. The more I got to thinking about my deep feelings for fall, the more I began to analyze what about that particular season has so seduced and delighted me. It is more than just the physique of curled yellow and orange leaves, more than the intensity of a dying red sun, more than just the chill that permeates the air and sends prickly tingles up and down my arms. It’s the food, the food culture, and the love that radiates from the climactic end of the growing season and the triumphant release of knowing the harvest will be successful and sustaining.
I love apples. Many, many people have heard me say that Ohio produces the best apples I’ve ever eaten and they are highly underrated. I want every person in America to know what an apple, freshly pulled from a flinging branch of a gnarled tree tastes like. I want everyone to know that the juice that runs down your chin when you bite into that apple should be murky and foamy and should taste so good that you stretch your tongue down over your lip, cutting across your teeth, straining to lick up every drop that has escaped your mouth. I wish each of us could have the experience of hauling crates of heavy apples from the bed of a rusty pick-up truck to a hand crafted wooden cider press, to load them into the square, funnel shaped grinder one by one, and to feel sweat run down our temples as our arms begin to feel strained and ache as we turn the wheel of the grinder by hand, listening for the trickling sound of a tiny stream of fresh cider flowing into an antique ceramic jug. Experiences like this feed my soul, fill my senses with restless desire for more, and make autumn into a love interest which I relentlessly pursue.
Of course it isn’t just apples. Soon the smooth, rounded pear shaped butternut squash will be ready for harvest. When autumn is in the peak of its glory, when November falls and frost becomes an imminent threat, nothing warms me, or my heart, like a bowl of warm, nutmeg spiced butternut squash soup, swirled with a dollop of creamy, slowly melting goat cheese. And how could I forget about chestnuts, carefully sliced and roasted until the rustic, earthy, nutty aroma fills the house, then burning my fingertips on the front porch, cracking and pulling open the blistered shells to get at the soft, milky nut steaming inside. Sometimes I imagine what it was like for people in our not so distant past who relied on the seeds they had sewn months before, to provide them with all the food they’d need to survive on until the earth woke from sleep again in early spring. How could they not be in love with fall, when their crops were ready, their lives insured for another winter, their bellies full and happy?
This year, I am falling in love with fall all over again. It has started. The other night, while I was driving my car with the cool wind blowing stringy strands of my hair across my face was the first of many small but significant flirtations with my beloved autumn. I love autumn, and as we get deeper and deeper into the season, the more autumn loves me, sharing its hearty orange pumpkins, pink and red and yellow apples, its deep green kale, its bleeding magenta beets, and every color, shape and size of winter’s eternal squash with me. Do yourselves a favor this year. Let your guards down, let go of your anxiety about the upcoming winter months, and let yourself fall a little bit in love with fall. You’ll be happy you did.
One of my favorite fall recipes, courtesy of my Mom…
Apple Spice Cake
5 locally grown apples, peeled, cored and chopped to 1/4in pieces
6 TBS. bourbon (or apple cider if you’d prefer, but the bourbon makes is amazing)
2 cups sugar
½ cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. salt
¼ tsp. group cloves
1 cup chopped nuts
1 cup raisins
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Place chopped apples in a large bowl and pour bourbon over them.
3. Mix together and beat the sugar, oil, and eggs. Add this mixture to the apple mixture.
4. Stir together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and salt. Add this to the apple and sugar mixture. Stir until mixed. Fold in walnuts and raisins.
5. Pour into a greased 9 x 13in pan and bake for one hour.
6. Dust with powdered sugar and serve.
This cake is a guilty pleasure for me. It is something I eat maybe once a year and thoroughly enjoy. You can also make it in a bundt pan, which is beautiful but can be tricky to get out of the pan. Make sure you grease it well, perhaps even butter and flour it, or grease it with something solid like Crisco. If you make it, I know you’ll love it.
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