from london: after may miles and many plates...

Cities change, even as they appear not to. You walk out the tube station, you look around and immediately you sense that something is different.

Who says politics don’t touch a street? I move carefully, deftly, trying to avoid the mad rush of traffic and I think – even tolling cars that come downtown hasn’t helped. I hear by next month you’ll have to pay 25 pounds just to drive through central London. Blair's last ditch efforts to make a difference? Some will pay. Some will gripe. The traffic will continue.




I walk for hours – down Sloan Street, bordered with parks that are under lock. For residents only! Give me a break… I’d forgotten about that part of England, the do not trespass England, the England that in a private park will put up a sign saying – children not allowed in this part of the park.

English children. Two minutes, I am out on the street for no more than two minutes and I hear it: don’t put your hand near your face! Can’t you see how dirty it is? I applaud the world of respectful children, I do! I dislike tremendously brats, set loose to do their damage, but surely English children hear more about what they are doing wrong than about what they might do right.

It starts to get dark around 4 at this time of the year. It’s still the tail end of fall – did you notice? Trees are not yet entirely free of color. It has to be at least 20 degrees warmer than in Wisconsin right now. But it’s windy and so I walk with a quick step.

I cover a lot of ground, from the parks, to the western tip of Chelsea, to the river and up past the parliament buildings. I’m tossing about thoughts of a past life, one lived here for months at a time, the England of the seventies and eighties, a different England, a different life.





Down the long tunnel to the tube, once the underground now the tube – is the imagery that different? Three pounds per ride, my oh my, New York seems dirt cheap. So I buy the Oyster pass – a new deal whereby you load up a card with cash and you scan it every time you ride, at a discount. A crummy deal for tourists who forget to cash in their used cards and load way too much money on it because it’s hard to predict how many rides you’ll need. But Oyster passes are the England of today and so I go with my oyster. I like the imagery – an oyster, riding the tube.

I am restless. I haven’t eaten anything since the croissant at Paris airport and I haven’t slept since the night before I taught my last class.

I show up for my dinner reservation early. Who cares. I am there, they are there, feed me please.





Rasoi Vineet Bhatia. This is his place and I have been wanting to eat hear ever since I first heard of it.

It’s Indian food prepared with utmost care, with the freshest ingredients and with supreme talent. Enough talent to make those across the Channel sigh deeply and admit that this is stuff worth traveling for. I’ll second that – if I had to go back to the States the next day, the trip would have been worth it because of the dinner.

I’ll pause with the text and run down the tasting menu that I selected. There should have been seven dishes, but as you’ll see, there were more. I was over-fed, over-wined and completely undercharged. Why? We see that you are enjoying this so much, can we make you another? And how about this wine – try it, it is a fantastic accompaniment. What do you think? How about this dish, how did you like it?

It was a stunning presentation. I cannot convey flavors on Ocean. But take a look. I have inserted some notes that I scribbled into my little notepad as the evening progressed. That’s for the foodies out there who care. A superb place. Makes me want to do a story on the man behind the stove. Someday.

* * * * *

Oh, so warm here. Mmmmm. Yes, yes, come in, come in, we have a nice warm table for you. Hmmm, since when do single women get the best table, up front by the window? I am appreciative.

Chips and two chutneys. The green one is spicy hot, the orange one is mango smooth. I must not eat the whole basket. I must not. Yes, sure, let me try the aperitif with 16 herbs and spices. Yes, show me what the chef can do. A tasting menu. I suppose I should take the smaller one – seven dishes. It seems like a lot right there...




Lovely flavors. A simple potato mash over a cracker. With spices. Nice…
Madame, we will wait until you finish your aperitif before we begin the menu. We have some nice wines selected that really show off the food.




Wow, that is a dazzling scallop. Lentils, mmmm, with an Alsatian Riesling. Bliss, heaven.. I need eat no more, this will have been worth it.




What’s this? Wild mushrooms? What mushrooms did you use? Oysters, shitake, and a bit of truffle. Yes, I can see that. Sort of like Indian risotto. With tomato ice cream on top! Wonderful.



Spiced crab and lentil soup. The crab is melting in its tenderness, mmmm..




Oh! Spectacular! A grilled lobster with ginger over chili and a broccoli mash – this has to be my favorite! Perfectly grilled. Not overdone, oh, what are you doing? I see, a dash of spices at the table, sort of like grinding fresh pepper, only this is a dusting of something nutmeggy brown.




Tamarind glazed quail? Oh, how lovely, over a potato mash and here are the little Indian breads with mint and a yogurt spread. Perfect!




An extra dish? Really? And another wine to try? The first three were magnificent. A samosa with goat cheese over pear chutney. So tasty!





Lamb and morel korma laced with truffle oil, steamed rice cakes, coconut chutney…

The woman at the table near mine leans over and asks – are you a food journalist? I tell her that I do like to write about food. Look at me, spilling over onto another screen and another here on Ocean. But does Ocean count?

The waiters are hovering, but they hovered even before I took out my camera. Besides, restaurant critics do not show up with cameras. They hide behind masks. I am initially shy with my monster Sony SLR, but the staff smile and tell me to feel free with it. And, this cook is over the top excellent. He has the world chatting about his wonderfulness. He does not need to worry about a ditzy woman out with her camera exposing some heretofore unrecognized flaw.




Another extra? Mango, yes, I taste it… coconut ice cream. So refreshing…




Crispy chocolate, chenna and roasted almond samosa with Indian tea ice cream and a 1977 Domaine Oinos stands up to the chocolate… I am getting sleepy… You know, back home, people never appreciate dessert wines. They keep chugging at their Pinots and Burgundies… I bring home a dessert wine and it collects dust in my closet under the stairs (a makeshift wine cellar!). No thanks, don’t open that, they say.

Oh, but I am sleepy now! Thank you, thank you! What’s this? The check… What do I make of it – they charged me even less than the price of the small menu… and I ate and tasted and sipped so much more!

What a place. No tube for me. I hike home through a quieter London. A sleepy London. Sleepy me.

I wake up at three and give up on sleep. Time to post.

layover

I spend a lot of time in airports.

However, all those flights do add up to a lounge privileges and I have to admit, I find these rooms to be comforting places -- a sweet imitation of home.

You can settle in, create your own little nest. In your spot, you can leave your bags, walk away unencumbered, you can eat, drink and, as demonstrated this morning at the Paris CDG lounge – take a nice hot shower when your connecting flight to London gets inexplicably cancelled and the next one isn’t for hours.

Some might sigh in exasperation and say -- ah travel. London hours lost, Paris airport hours gained, in abundance. But I don’t really mind. I’m listening to French, munching on a croissant and drinking good coffee. A virtual trip to France, thrown in. And eventually, there will be a London. I think.

UPDATE: here at last, as you can tell from this solitary photo, taken seconds ago from my tiny corner hotel room.

on my way to the isles

I haven’t set foot on English soil since…the previous century. It’s not on the way to anything. I know, poor excuse. Here’s another: It’s too expensive. And the weather – I have vivid memories of days when I put in precious shillings into space heaters in cheap hotels to bring out warmth there. I was newly married and life was a bubble, but in Great Britain, it was always a cold bubble. Another vivid memory: me, knitting a scarf for my new husband when I was a mere child (at 23 or so) in the cold rooms of the Scottish libraries where he was doing research. I should have been working on my own dissertation ideas then, but instead I was hell bent on knitting a scarf. (I have never completed a knitting project since.)

So England hasn’t been a destination for me. Not even a stop-over. But when I realized that I had a law school task there to attend to this month, I leaped.

And I have to admit, I’m tremendously looking forward to it. Perhaps it is a nostalgia run. All those memories of afternoons spent drinking cuploads of tea and munching on scones with cream and jam in years where it did not immediately matter (these days one such cream tea would make my wardrobe obsolete, of that I am sure).

More likely, it is that England again emerges as quaintly novel. I had to read up on how to get from the airport to the city because I did not know. I read with fascination articles about the emergent culinary scene in London. It hadn’t really emerged when I was there last. At least not in my price range.

I am about to board the plane and I am full of enthusiasm. For England no less. I would not have written that ten years ago. Puffins. It’s all about the puffins.*

* This is a reference to the fact that off the coast of Yorkshire, there are puffins. I am determined to spot some.

off to the land of clotted cream

Classes done, suitcase packed, liquids and gels poured into 100 ml containers and placed in a zip-locked bag, camera battery charged, bills paid, train schedules checked, restaurant table booked for tomorrow (yes, really -- I would do just that), and the next day (I attend to my stomach) and the next (I have no spontaneity) and the next (couldn't resist).

Unless Air France now serves WiFi along with the free champagne in its lounge, I will not be able to post until tomorrow, from London.

Tally ho and all that.

i’m running, even as i write this

Going away in the middle of a week is insanely difficult. The coordination and advance work are taxing to the max. I am in that treadmill period.

In running from one place to another, I came across this person on the Library Mall.




I asked him – so what cause are you representing? He said—just hugs. I didn’t fold into his arms, there is full view, but maybe I should have…

Tomorrow, after class, I’ll run to the bus that’ll take me to O’Hare where I will hop onto my connecting flights to London. It could be that I’ll find no posting opportunities until I get to London the next day. It could be.

I’m only in England for a handful of days, but I’m taking Ocean with me. How could I not… Drizzly wet England, London, Yorkshire – perfect for me at this particular moment, don’t you think?

a lesser human being

Most days are a blur of routine acts. They are undistinguished in that, if I stay the course, if I do not let some devilish thought fester and take control of my time, I can, at the end of the day at the very least say – I did no harm.

Looking over this day (and it’s not over yet), I can see failure sprinkled up and down every contour and crevice, every hour of its short sunlit expanse.

Chronologically: I slept in. I can’t remember the last time I did not take charge of my day until it was nearly the next meal, but today had slow start written all over it.

Pushing aside the granola, I instead went to the local café, ordered a latte, bit into a greasy muffin and read the travel section of the NYT. Cover to cover.

On an errand at Best Buy, I fell in love. So much so that I could not take my eyes off of…it. A small, two pound baby, easy to transport, easy to cuddle. Completely unaffordable.




True, I did not purchase it, but I was tempted beyond belief. Suddenly, $59 per month for four years seemed entirely reasonable.

Eventually, home alone, I decided to call a person whom I should be calling on at least a weekly basis, but whom I do not have the moral courage to call more than once per month. Alright, sometimes less than that. And naturally, I did get in trouble for my general incompetence as a human being (including the noncalling thing). Explaining why I was terrified of dialing said number more often was absolutely the stupidest thing I could have done. The party in question hung up on me.

The odd thing is, if I had to do this day all over again, I would do it in exactly the same way.

get used to it

So it begins. Winter in Wisconsin. Right here, virtually out my back door.





I don’t blame these guys. Swim away and find a warmer place.





Nice… quite nice to look at.





But let me count: November, December, January, February, March. At least five. What fun.

suddenly

Yesterday, looking out my office window:




Today, looking out my office window, it was an entirely different matter.

This morning, I woke up thinking: Nina, you are becoming nonhardy.

Feeling I needed to return to my former (images of my)self as the conservator of the hardy Polish Peasant stock gene, I decided to bike to drop off some papers at the Square and then woosh down State Street in time for the faculty meeting. I was later told that I looked a sight. For, what started as a light splatter of wetnesses…




…soon turned into a horrible mix of frozen matter, slapped onto anything and anyone in its wind-blasted path.





The only thing I can say is that biking through this stuff is faster than trudging through it.

quiet

To travel and get as much pleasure from it as I do... To be thrown into spinning orbits of planes, trains and auto-something-or-others, for all that to be great and wonderful means that my non-travel days have to be mellow. And they are.

With family scattered across the continent, I can't say that there are all that many demands placed on me by others here in Madison. Work, yes, that's everdemanding. But apart from that, it can be very quiet here at the loft for a very long time.

I cook just a wee bit, write more, rarely pick up the phone, keep plugged into the rest of the planet via my computer and think about things done and things in need of doing.

Thinking time is quiet time. This afternoon, with the sun warming the paths along the lake, I walked more than I have all Fall. My sometime travel companion, Ed, ever ready to participate in quietness and in anything even resembling hiking, walked along.

I had forgotten that I left a vehicle at Borders last night (don’t ask; I honestly did forget it) and so the goal was to walk there and pick it up. That’s it. After a tough and very long teaching day, the entire plan for the late afternoon was for me to walk to Borders, read, pick up car, return.

Such tranquil hours. Undisturbed. Like a duck on a limb, basking in the sun against the calm waters of a very very blue lake.




We climb up the hill behind Borders and a walk down, through the small forest in back of the bookstore.





I have a rushed trip to England next week. One day of work there, two days of play. This quiet time now puts me in the mood for the rush of travel. It’s a good balance for me.

sit back, face the sun, put it aside for a day…

A very warm sun is out, making everything else a lot more palatable. Of course, I have no regrets about popping a champagne cork last night. At the national level. But here, in Madison, it turned out to be a very mixed bag of post election results.

Sigh… But, it is such a warm day. You have to admit it – a beautiful day. A contemplative kind of day.

optimism

The first day of a school year, moving into a new apartment, beginning a job, taking an exam after thorough preparation (alright, that’s a rare one), New Year’s Day, taking your baby home for the first time, elections.

For all the apprehension, for all the doubts and recollections of past failures, you want, hope for, perhaps even expect in a wee way success.

And so, before the evening sets in, before anyone even breathes the word – results, I’m putting up a few images of optimism. (Just to assure you that it made its way to the loft, I’ll admit to stashing a bottle of the bubbly in the fridge. In case.)



Madison Metro cares



...he really cares



I voted for her. May she win.

the lonely road

Almost five p.m.. Tired people returning home. Me, I’m biking along the lake, thinking about tomorrow’s election and about food.

I’m heading toward the City-County building to cast my absentee ballot. (I prefer to vote today and save tomorrow for other things. Eating maybe.)

To my right, the familiar sight of a lonely soul walking along the tracks. This always gets to me. There’s no room for unbridled joy on the tracks. It’s at best – a pensive place, at worst, a life sucks kind of amble.





Loneliness is watching concession speeches made by people you hoped would make victory speeches.

Oh, we are jovial, standing in that line to cast our ballots. We are Fair Wisconsin! We are the ones voting today so that we can be available to get out the vote tomorrow. Or to put food on the table to feed the empty-spirited, because something tells me there will be a lot of empty spirited people mulling around my town by sundown.

Two years ago I ate comfort food on the eve of the day after. Meatloaf with Ann. She had voted one way and I had voted another and there we were, sharing meatloaf, because life goes on.

Tonight I am going to seek out the comfort food ahead of election day. A reservation in a pizza joint, made days in advance. (Does anyone else in this world reserve in advance at a pizza joint?)

I stand in line, waiting for my turn to vote and I joke and I laugh in that hollow way that one does when one doesn’t know how else to behave. And I vote. One line on one page, then – flip it over and a big fat line to indicate my NO on the state constitutional amendment.





And then I make my way to Porta Alba, the only place on this side of the ocean that serves a real, Italian-style pizza. I take the funghi, with tomato and mozzarella.

la vie mediterranee

I recently (minutes ago) found myself in a conversation about Madison. I’ve had these before – they are not really about what there is to like about this town, but how it suits some so well and others – eh, not one way or another.

Many have argued that it does not suit me much. That my frequent departures, my joy at being within spittin’ distance of the Mediterranean, my inexplicable radiance at the prospect of a tedious overseas flight – they are all good signs that I should have considered living elsewhere.

Truth is, there are some things about Madison that I love just so damn much. And honestly, what I like about being within spittin’ distance of the Mediterranean cannot be found in many places that are not within spittin’ distance of the Mediterranean (climate, regional foods, attitude toward…life). And yet, I am so willing to argue that Madison, like no other, has the aromas of la vie mediterranee up and down its midwestern soul (and there is a lot to be said for that midwestern soul as well). I wont spell it out, but I will tell a story that, to me, conveys tons.

I am at the Saturday farmers market. True, it is dangerously close to noon. The real shoppers would scoff at my late arrival. Me, I’m leisurely. I need garlic, greens, mushrooms, apples, potatoes. You can always find these, even if you are a lazy-come-late shopper.

Except Harmony Valley is out of arugula. Damn! I want that peppery leaf in my salads! The people at the stand would do a lot for me, I know, but they will not grow fresh arugula on the Capitol lawn and harvest it in time for my evening supper.

Robert, a farmer over at Pleasant Hill (certified organic!) – that’s a few stalls down – is hanging around, chattin’ to the Harmony Valley folks. He hears my anguish. (I can get worked up about arugula, I know that.) He tells me to come by his farm – I should be able to find some bunches still worthy of harvesting.

And so Sunday, I am out in his field, surveying the arugula – one that bravely withstood the 18 degree night we had last week. I poke around the heart of the clumps and pick out a few crisp leaves.





And while there, I dig up some carrots, which Robert then rinses carefully as we discuss weather issues and farming in general. Maybe I haven’t a whole lot to contribute to this, but I do listen as he tells me about waking up each morning with the worry of yet another low temp reading. Coldest fall since I started farming – he tells me.





Maybe you can’t smell in that la vie mediterranee. But I can. On so many levels. If I cannot have France, Italy and a bunch of other sea hugging places on the other side of the ocean, I’ll take Madison.

closing shop

Last farmers’ market of the year. You can tell. I can tell.

one story, but differently told and differently understood

That’s reassuring, isn’t it? That we may still entertain ourselves in the retelling, since it will always be uniquely presented and we can only guess how others are hearing it.

For example: here it is – the same white dome, visible from my loft window, except maybe that wasn’t the first thing that caught your eye. Maybe it was the street, seen through the right corner of the window. Or the reflections of flowers. Or maybe you were taken by my blue sweater. It is an awfully nice sweater.




I had an encounter with a doctor – someone whom I had been seeing off and on for years now (he likes to sharpen his tools on various parts of me and then we part, ‘til the next time and the next) and I asked him – how long has it been since our first encounter? Ten years? More? Because I still remember the guy who came before him. He retired and then along came this one and I’m thinking in another ten years this one will be retiring. In the meantime, they scrape and cut and stitch in much the same way cavemen and women scraped and cut, only with different implements, accomplishing different tasks.

…And they fell in love and some had babies, others hunted animals, still others saved animals from the hunters.

Me, I noticed the white dome in the picture and then my face and only then the street in the right corner.

one story

Maybe there is, out there, only one story to be told, one kind of day to be had. Oh sure, our responses may vary. Easy to botch things, less easy to make repairs. Easiest to churn out dreary thoughts, to just go through the motions or emotions, reacting, until bones get brittle and there is no energy left for much of anything.

The other day I was looking at my blogroll with eyes half closed and I thought – time to leave a comment. And I did. And in my mind’s eye, I saw the person whose blog I was addressing. The entire thing was like a conversation. Person posts, I respond, etc.

Today I was looking at blogs again, this time with eyes mostly opened and I came across my comment. On someone else’s blog. It made sense to leave it there. Even though I thought I was leaving it elsewhere!

One idea, provoked by any number of blogs. One conversation, one post written in answer to all days.

I took only two photos today. Why so few? I left the loft for work early, came home late. Before leaving, I looked out the window and saw this:



Snow. Damn.

Day passes, I walk home encumbered with my camera and I think – I really should take another photo and so, as I cross West Wash, I take this:




Same angle, same almost everything. Sure, the weather reversed, the sun went down, the lights came on.

But ultimately, it was the same building, photographed yet again. Not for the first time, second time or last time.

up against a brick wall

The bike ride to work is beautifully easy. The bike path shoots west in a straight line. Then, a right and a few blocks of weaving between cars and buses and I am there.

The route back is more complicated. Now, in the late afternoon, I begin to have choices. Time is usually not of essence. I meander, backtrack, move in toward State Street, then zip to the alley back of the Kohl’s Center. I am crafting pleasure. With each block I think – was this a good choice? Should have I gone east a little further?

People have a fascination with doors and bridges. I had a t-shirt once with sketched bridges of Cambridge (UK). There are the Paris ones, too. And I have looked at many beautiful posters of doors – on both sides of the ocean. Oh, and windows – I can’t resist them either: with geraniums and lace curtains and old warped shutters. Photographic bliss.

But what strikes me as uniquely pretty on my ride home, as I pedal and weave, are the brick walls. The ones that are like barricades, windowless facades. And yet, someone takes a brush and suddenly, the wall is transformed. No longer a barricade, it now invites. Come in and smell the flowers, listen to the music. Chat us up, lean forward, catch our eye.

life, in pink

If it is nearly freezing outside and you come across a rose bush still in bloom, you pause and marvel at the mere incongruity of it, of that tattered flower, and you think (even if it is about to be the dreariest of months) – there will be blooms in the days ahead. Surely there will be blooms!



Only, they’ll be few and far between.

People seem tired in November (with the exception of the first of the month, when they are post-Halloween hyper.)

I’m not especially heading into it tired, but I am a little discouraged at how quicky I'm finding it to be unpleasantly cold and dark out there. These, to me, are the most unpleasant aspects of the early winter months.

But I am remembering a valuable lesson from last winter. On the coldest of February week-ends, I found myself up north, in Quebec. There, I could observe firsthand how the Quebecois embrace their unrelenting cold climate. Instead of hiding from an Arctic blast, they are out there jumping off cliffs on gliders, climbing up ice walls and lacing up skates. Forget the indoor arena: take out your blades and glide in the icy winds!

So this year I am vowing to embrace the dreary dark months of early winter. That’ll be me, extending my walk to and from work, flying out the door in spite of, nay, because of the piercing cold wetness that hits your skin then quickly finds the shortest route to the bone.

And because immersing myself in even more dreariness will only work to overcome my antipathy to it, I’ll head out toward places that are even drearier, darker and colder than Madison at this time of the year. Imagine, there are such places.

Welcome, November, December… God, you are such a challenge.

october warmth

You wont believe me, not any number of you, but this afternoon, looking up to see my red bike resting there against the frame of the local café was completely satisfying. Something about having a late October day reach warm temperatures…




True, five minutes later I was retrieving my mail and it set me onto a spin and (not unpleasant) turmoil (the result of which appears on the sidebar to this blog). But for the minute that I looked over and saw my bike, waiting for me, I was at peace.

halloween notes

I don’t think our climate up here in Wisconsin is well suited to all-night outdoor partying, especially if you’re determined to do it in some state of undress. And yet, each year people drive for miles just to hang out on State Street until wee hours on the last Saturday of October. How is it that we sold this night as a Madison must?

At some point, too many came and businesses balked. Something about having a drunken brawl on their doorstep, with 100,000 attending was off-putting.

And so this year, the city took precautions: even more police officers. Roped off access, with attendance limited to those who were willing to pay $5. And a nice dose of windy, cold air.

I live a mere handful of blocks away and so, wind and entrance fees notwithstanding, I convinced the ever affable Ed to come out and we paraded up and down State Street until I was simply too cold to continue.

I would have written that it was a tame night. The biggest fiasco on State Street seemed to be the occasional mummy whose costume would tear at the perforation.



So many of the costumes were just so…cheerful.




…And so many men joyfully padded their shirts and grew out hair overnight. Predictable stuff.




The street was calm. There was even room for a romantic spin with your sweetie.




All under the watchful eye of the police…





In all, a kickass event…





All was well until we left State Street. Closer to my home, we nearly tripped on a young man convulsed in a heap by the sidewalk. The tort prof in me says – walk away walk away. The uman being in me says it’s too cold to pass out on the street like that.

But the stupor was not caused by alcohol. Or at least not directly. The man had an ugly bloody gash in his head. When he came to, he was somewhere between nonsensical and mildly incoherent.

A police person had to be dragged in from watching the fun stuff on State Street to provide a service off off State. I’m not sure whether the victim’s rendition of what happened was altogether credible. You believe a mugging when the mugged has at least a wallet stolen and does not admit to partial intoxication. Regardless, it was a sad sight.

Eventually we left, grateful to the young college kids who had been partying in the house next door and helped us deal with this guy. Calling the police was not something they would have otherwise welcomed, given the nature of their party, the ages of some of the participants (I'm guessing here), and other irksome considerations of legality.

Blood on faces looks a lot better when it’s fake.

regional seasonal

This isn't really a comment about food. It's on weather issues. What happened to the too-warm days of mid October? What happened to the Halloween where we sent out kids trick-or-treating without forcing them into mittens and caps?

Or is it me?

This morning at the market – the next to last one of the year, the farmers were one foot out already in their mindset. Ms. Bee-Charmer-who-also-sells-pumpkins tells me – why is today’s market dragging so much? Then: come on, don’t you want one of my pumpkins? They’re French, like you. Alright, load my French market basket with yout heavy ball of goodness. Sweet pumpkin soup made from the very French piece of squash, by the not very French Ocean blogger.




I fill out the order form for a Blue Valley Thanksgiving turkey. The farmer asks -- can you stick around for a few minutes? I want to get a warm cup of coffee from l’Etoile.

It’s not just me.

At the tomato stand, a young girl helps her dad. She is protected from the wind. Sort of.





There are shoppers, but not too many. The end of October. Red wagons are loaded down with pumpkins. Are they going to be peeled and seeded and roasted and served as soup? Too big. Little pumpkins taste better. These are doorstep material.

But the sun is there and everything is riper, brighter, better, more photogenic in its warmth.





After the market, I drive briefly out of town just to see if the sun improves what little is out there at this time of the year. It does.