The mornings are cold now. Frost glitters on windows and roofs, and the maples are bare, though leaves still cling to the apple trees. I have spent a few afternoons raking leaves and wheeling loads of them into the gardens for mulch. Now the plots have assumed a funereal tidiness. Only kale and arugula and mache are still thriving; even the sage, staple of my autumn kitchen, is tiring.
I should be thinking about making Emily Dickinson's black cake. I should be planning Thanksgiving dinner because I'm longing to do something different. Away with the tedious mashed potatoes. I'm even toying with the idea of replacing the turkey. Why should holidays be so predictable? Maybe I'll roast a batch of Cornish game hens. We could think of them as personal turkeys.