Danny and I walked into the kitchen, ready to cook. A blue post-it note on the front door said, “We’re out walking the dog. Make yourselves at home.” We unpacked clarified butter, bags of fresh arugula, a carton of eggs, a bag of apples, the scone dough that needed to go into the freezer. Danny turned the dial to heat the oven to 425°. I found the knives. In only a few moments, this new space felt familiar, thanks to the kitchen rituals.
Autumn, I love you. I love your starting-to-be-chilly air, the reds and golds, the letting go, the apples off the tree, the smell of cinnamon suddenly appealing again, the memories of summer starting to fade. And I love love love that you, autumn, bring us school returning again.
When I was a kid, and when I was a teacher, I mourned the end of summer. I liked school. I liked teaching school. However, the transition between long indolent days of doing whatever I wanted and the early-morning schedule and days locked into routine seemed pretty rude. September seemed like a mournful song, sung out of tune.
The first day of school this year, after we gave Lucy a hug before she walked into her first-grade classroom, I saw one of my friends among the swarm of parents in the hallway. We high-fived over the crowd and then he said, “Hey! Drinks in the middle school parking lot! Meet you there in 10!” (He was joking about the drinks part. It was only 9 a.m.)
Short version: we’re inviting people across the country to have potluck parties in honor of American Classics Reinvented, to gather the people you love together to share food everyone can have together. Have a pie party. A Midwest celebration!…