That is 10 1/2 pounds of tomatoes, because I wasn't kidding about the panic. I've managed to get rid of a few pounds' worth so far, but that means I still have around 7 lbs of mostly green tomatoes. What the heck am I supposed to do with that many green tomatoes? I like fried green tomatoes as much as the next person, but I feel sick just thinking about putting seven pounds of fried food in me. Any alternate suggestions?
I also brought it in the last of the rhubarb, which is still sitting on my counter, waiting to be turned into a tasty treat, along with a giant pile of tulip bulbs, because thirty minutes ago I said to myself, "I only have time to do one of the following: Bake rhubarb bread, plant bulbs, or write a blog post." As you can see, sitting on my keister won.
When I'm not huddling under a blanket indoors, however, I'm struck with how beautiful it is this time of year, from the view on my morning run:
...to watching Caedmon explore puddles with his hands while waiting for the elder two to disembark from their giant yellow chariot every afternoon:
Signs of fall indoors are a little less thrilling, but still welcome.
Hello, Favorite and Most Wonderful Slippers in the Universe. You had a solid five months to hibernate, but now you're back on Active Duty every single day until next May. My icicle feet will appreciate the tar out of you, even if my clumsy hands can't help but spill food on you every blessed day.
Hello, giant mound of flannel sheets. The temperature in the house has hovered right around sixty degrees for most of the last week, and so when I switched out the cotton sheets for your soft warmth on all four beds, our children rejoiced, I rejoiced, even Derek the Furnace rejoiced for a while.
Hello, unspecific succulent. I'm sorry I can never remember your actual name. I'm sure it's beautiful. (Not sure at all, actually; so many flowers have seriously ugly names: Why did your mother hate you so, Spiderwort?) You've thrived all summer in benign neglect on the back deck, and now I will bring indoors for the winter, where you will mostly likely curse my name as you succumb to a slow death under my well-meaning ministrations. Sorry in advance. It's not you, it's me.
And now look at that! I still have time to throw a few bulbs in the ground before I leave the house, after all. God forbid I go out in public with clean hands.