Hello Dear Ones,
Sunday the 13th. Does that imply something? A blessing or curse? Since we’re the ones who make meaning, I’m declaring it auspicious. You’re welcome.
This weekend, I’m in Elmwood, again. That’s the small town in West Central Illinois my Dad grew up in.
It’s always delightful, but Elmwood in autumn might be my favorite Elmwood. Every year of my life, with the exception of a few, I have gone to Elmwood for the annual Scenic Spoon River Drive. It’s a fall festival that stretches out over several counties in the region, boasting all kinds of handcrafted bits & bobs for sale, from a spoon rest made from a melted down & repurposed Ball mason jar, to a kitschy holiday Christmas tree sign, featuring every family member’s name written on a dangling wooden bauble. There are lawn ornaments, dishtowels, soaps, & finely made jewelry, like that of my friend Sharon, a silversmith, at Walnut Grove.
Also, there’s junk. Cool junk, like old tools & vintage dishes & weird little things like tiny metal birthday candle holders. My Dad is very adept at finding cool junk on the Scenic Drive.
I’m thinking now of a story about my nephew Luke when he was a small boy & we were at a burger joint in Herrin that’s been open forever. They have a fun junk egg machine & when we went there with Luke, we’d always get him a little egg with a cheap bracelet or dinosaur figurine or easily breakable yo-yo inside. Once, when we asked him if he’d like a junk egg after lunch he exclaimed, with fervent belief, “It’s not junk!” It’s truly in the eye of the beholder.
Also at Scenic Drive: food. Apple cider slushies if it’s warm outside–or hot cider if it’s cool. Famous pork tenderloin sandwiches as big as your face. A pile of haystack onion rings with plenty of salt & ketchup, many hands to a plate. Thin, spiral-sliced freshly fried potatoes affectionately called “Rotaters.” Fried oreos & the American Legion’s homemade baked goods. Listen, this food is not necessarily healthy for the body, but it is good for the soul. There’s also local honey & pickled vegetables & homemade jams & jellies for sale.
Also, this Midwestern dream wouldn’t be complete without a visit to Christ Orchard, home of delicious unpasteurized apple cider, as well as a variety of apples, pumpkins, squash, & other autumnal delights for sale, like apple butter & beautiful, dried corn with jewel-colored kernels.
Growing up, my Grandma Pat made the best Dutch apple pie you ever had, & consistently, every year, she made applesauce. She’d buy “seconds” from the orchard, which are the apples that are perfectly edible, but not as pretty to look at, so they don’t make it into the storefront bushels & pecks & are sold at a discounted price. I can see her sitting at her kitchen table, with apple peels all around her. I can smell the hot mixture of apple chunks, cinnamon, & sugar on the stove. Grandma’s kitchen was magic to me as a little girl. It’s still magic, as we her grandkids & great-grandkids gather around to make the applesauce for her these days.
So, after I’ve made y’all very hungry indeed, I’m going to leave you with a poem I wrote a few years ago. Maybe after you read it, you can go make a mess in your own kitchen, or go for a walk to see the changing leaves, go to an orchard or pumpkin patch, cuddle up & read a book, get into some real autumnal bliss.
Thanks, as ever, for reading.
Until next time,
Annie
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dump Cake I’ve taken to baking, which I can do mostly sitting at the kitchen table. I don’t have enough energy for pie, but just enough for dump cake. When my feet give out, I think of sugar, of what the yellow cake mix will do with all that butter in the oven over bubbling apples, the crust that will break under my fork & melt into vanilla ice cream from the grocery store uptown. I can’t afford new contact lenses or a haircut, but there are seven Jonagolds on the counter. When my Grandma told me You’ll beat this thing & I told her probably not, but I’ll try to live a happy life, she asked if I believe in the power of prayer. By now & knowing this many angels, I don’t. Instead, I believe these ribbons of apple peel would make her proud–the blush, bruised skin coming off with my knife so easily & all in one piece. As my hands cramp, I hear thunder & think of how beautiful the bridge of M.’s nose looked today at the park kissed by a cobble of light under the red-leafed arms of an oak tree as a hastening storm blew pink clouds across the sky, how we made it home just before the rain, & how I have three kinds of cinnamon. In October in Illinois, what problem can’t cinnamon solve? At least for a little while, at least for tonight.
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