As fall commences with still no frost, the air becomes luminous from the changing colors, and the hills themselves become models for new old works by Constable. He must have done all his painting in October.
The garden is a wreck with still some hidden treasures. I may dig potatoes today, both Irish and sweet – the Irish called German, oddly, and Butterball for cause. The sweets, in homage to their status as the pinnacle of southern yams, are called Beauregard.
Beside and between, the peppers are at their peak, the okra offers a last small feast, and the experimental crowder peas are offing up their last. The day before frost, the last green tomatoes will be harvested and the ingredients for venison-green tomato mincemeat canned.
The two bushels of Stayman Winesap apples (purchased as seconds for $7) have become three pints of applesauce and 10 jars of apple butter. Autumn in the Ozarks never fails to remind me of why I live here. Winter, now, that’s another story, one that reminds me I have to order my winter’s firewood.