There is something about the first cold Sunday of fall. The air is brisk and moist and refreshing. Everything seems sharper; the smell of leaves and pine and cold water come swirling along on the wind, and the sky is always so blue that it shocks me.
On the first cold Sunday of fall, we make our first fire in the woodstove, and we soak up the dry woodsy heat as we go through our daily routine. And on that first cold Sunday, I always cook all day, so that we are surrounded by comfort foods and comfort smells.
Today is that first day of true fall. The fire is lit, the pine needles have been swept off the deck. There is a chicken in the oven, and a sugar pumpkin has been baked and mixed with maple syrup. I made home made cranberry sauce and there is a pan of scalloped potatoes baking.
A few minutes ago, I grabbed four fresh Macintosh apples, and cooked them down into sweet cinnamony apple sauce.
Everything is cozy, and safe and comforting as we sit in the living room, watching football and reading the Sunday paper.
Everything should be just about perfect, but it isn’t.
The first cold Sunday of fall should be filled with the sound of my children playing in the yard. The pumpkin should have been carved with their little hands to scoop out the seeds for roasting. The apples should have been cut with their help, the leaves raked into piles just made for jumping. The warm, bright house should be holding them close, keeping them happy and safe.
It just isn’t the same with only Paul and I to pull on the wishbone after dinner.