Pinecone Garlands, Remembering November

Carrot Cake Studded w/Poached Quince

Hello dearest readers,

I write to you this chilly November morning, very early. I'm steps away from the Yonne River, sipping a robust coffee at the library desk my husband built to support more than a hundred books I've brought to France throughout the years.

Wild mushrooms are popping up everywhere. Short, chubby ones with wooden-brown caps grow near spindlier ones. I don't dare forage them, couldn't. But I look forward to the day I can distinguish edible from poisonous. Until then, I'll tag along with knowledgeable foragers.

November's somewhat sorrowful air pierces my nose with scents of quince and turned soil, sweet warmth. The Burgundian landscape is becoming more bare by the day. Most fruit trees are stripped, save for a few rotten apples and pears dangling. I'm curious if the trees are mourning their loss and missing all the spring birds that sat on their branches.

Earthy scents rustle in the wind, blowing from every direction: under roots, out of bogs, over the fields. Long, dark evenings have arrived. I illuminate the room with beeswax candles that I buy from the religious shop next to the Basilique de Vézelay. They smell curiously of honey and myrrh and my husband always say "it's for a good cause," when I purchase them from the nuns. The candles burn down to the nubs, leaving a waxy stain.