It’s snowing today. Flakes are floating, dancing, tumbling through the air as wind gusts catch them.

It’s one of the first things I do in the morning, touch a flaming match to the wick of the candle in the kitchen window.

The sweet solitude of a fresh snow has fallen on us. I walk through the powder, an excited puppy leaping about my ankles, and I’m held by the quiet, by the calm, by the pause.

I once worked as a buyer and visual merchandiser for a pair of tastefully curated kitchenware and home goods stores

It’s something that comes of friendship and creativity and foraging gone wild. In August she messaged me with words something like this

I sliced the packing tape along the joins of the box flaps and opened them wide, picked up the thoughtful card resting at the top, thanking me for my order.

I love how fall lets you start again. Start baking bread, start making soup. Start a new knitting project. Start what feels like a slower pace, an amble toward hibernation.

To begin, give yourself permission to have a beautiful wardrobe. Go ahead.

In early morning, I pull the summer’s weeds while redirecting a particularly bitey puppy.

Little Miss Mae. Maggie Mae, to be precise.

Since mid July, there’s been wave upon wave of brilliant orange and red. The poppies just won’t stop.

I cracked an orange-yolked egg from the neighbor hens into the bowl of the food processor, added some light olive oil, pink salt, and mustard powder, put the lid on and gave it a quick pulsing blitz.