Today, I was baker of bread, maker of cookies, wiper of runny noses and dispenser of cough medicine, as well as fixer of jammed backpack zippers.
Also, watched the Angels officially jettison themselves from the postseason. Well, sort of watched. I was really making the cookies at that point.
As I've mentioned, we had a pretty cool summer, temperature-wise. Did I bake? Of course not! I waited until today, when it was 93F! I've once again gotten fed up with paying exorbitant prices for bread (or less exorbitant prices for bread that goes bad the next day--that's you, Trader Joe), and when the sign says Autumn, I always want to bake.
Even when it's 93.
So the KitchenAid and I went at it, beating up bread and cookie dough. The house smelled of honey and maple syrup (I made whole wheat bread, ran out of honey, and threw in some maple syrup to supplement) and cinnamon and butterscotch and chocolate. Never a bad thing, really. The son had designs on a loaf of bread until he discovered the cookies.
Last week was a bad week. In some ways, the coming week will be worse. Part of me fights with a sense of powerlessness, but I know, armed with what I gained over the summer, that I am not powerless at all.
Go listen to some good music: "The Four Seasons, 'Autumn'; 2. Largo" from the album Vivaldi: the Four Seasons by Karoly Botvay; Budapest Strings. This is the lesser known bit of "Autumn," the part that always sounds bittersweet to me, is emblematic of the change from spring and summer to the little death that is winter. I never, never expected my autumn to swing this direction again, but I am better equipped this time. And yeah, I can still be surprised, after all this time.