The earth moves more quickly at the equinox, or at least it feels that way as we tilt towards winter. Each day is shorter, the light cooler, the night colder. The other morning I woke to blue skies and rode out into a bank of fog that capped the hill and pooled in the hollow of downtown, leaving our house bare in the pale sunshine.
It’s a lovely morning. Over the traffic roar and refrigerator hum I can hear a chickadee whistling in the back yard (are our ears tuned particularly to birdsong, to pull their frequencies out from all the human clatter?). Yesterday’s bake went beautifully, mostly. The rye breads—all three kinds! Mountain, Vollkorn, and Ring—rose well; the wheat loaves bloomed; the cookies are crisp; the plum scones tender; the apple cake as perfect a fall pastry as I’ve yet baked with its sweet-tart fruit, earthy buckwheat and rye, and hint of warm spice. Only the gingerbread went awry, collapsing as it cooled. I’m not sure I have the patience to nurse this temperamental cake through another season. Delicious as it is, it may be time to retire it in favor of a less fragile recipe.
Ezra’s setting up the stand as I write. I’m off to ride the morning’s deliveries and then I’ll circle back to the Depot. It’s been a long time since I spent a full day at market, wallowing as I’ve been the luxury of two day weekends. I’ll see you there.
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