Every January, I end up on a citrus tear.  I’m not much for resolutions, and January is far from my favorite month (I grew up in Minnesota, and I live in Chicago, after all), but I do love the sunny spectrum of citrus that shows up at the grocery store this month.  Weekly, I haul home a heaving bag of ruby red grapefruits.  Each morning, I top segments of their tart flesh with yogurt and granola.  A pair of clementines accompany me to work every day; a crate of the little orange guys rarely outlasts the stretch between our weekly grocery trips.  Less frequently, but still dependably, I get hankerings for key lime pies, the urge to make a citrus-hued curd, and an inexplicable desire to squeeze blood oranges until my hands are stained with their brilliantly-colored juice.

And always, there is a lemon cake.

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It’s been quiet here, for too long.  Christmas and Hanukkah slipped by without a hello, or a recipe.  The new year rang in without a word.  We’re a ways into January, now, and the site has remained dormant.  Still and silent, like an early winter morning—one that’s been blanketed in a fresh coat of sparkling snow.  The same cannot be said about my real life, the offline one, which had been consumed by work.  I emerged on Sunday after a major deadline, and I’m slowly readjusting to a more normal pace of life.

It’s been nice.

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After a busy couple of months, I was just starting to think that I wouldn’t have much time for holiday baking.  But that’s when the urge to make these biscotti hit.  I was in the mood for a not-too-sweet cookie with crunch, and one of my favorite combinations (almond extract and poppy seeds) leapt to mind.  The dough came together in a flash, and I multi-tasked while the biscotti underwent their double-bake.  In no time, I had a tin full of festive, poppy seed-flecked cookies, redolent of almond.

With the biscotti behind me, I’m feeling less sorry for myself and my lack of time for holiday baking.

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I have so much to say, but no where to start.  When I’m at a loss, I usually retreat to the kitchen, so that’s what I’ll do now, and I’ll tell you that today, my kitchen was a hub of productivity.  We’re hosting Thanksgiving this (this?) Thursday (this Thursday?!), and I’m in full-on preparation mode.  Today alone, I dispatched several sticks of butter (pie crusts, resting in the fridge, awaiting their fillings; buttermilk biscuits, frozen hockey pucks at the moment, but flaky rounds, with any luck, come Thanksgiving), mixed together a batch of ice cream (bourbon-vanilla bean, of course), and baked up a thin pan of cornbread, destined for stuffing, after a nice few days of drying out.

Thanksgiving, I own you.

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I cooked what felt like a million things over the weekend, and I’ll eat almost none of them.  Instead, the dishes are stashed in my parents’ freezer—a stockpile for my mother’s recovery from back surgery, which will be slow and tough for her, but (by god!) she will not be hungry.

On Saturday, I chopped and simmered and stirred all day, making a spectacular mess with which my sister tried to keep up (she’s a saint).  I was on my feet for hours and hours, at my mother’s stove, her counter, her sink, using her knives, her pots and pans, her pantry ingredients.  All the while, she was in bed.

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After a week’s worth of 70- to 80-degree October days, I’ve finally settled on the perfect solution for this unseasonal weather.

It’s this: Pumpkin Ice Cream.

With bourbon, naturally.

There is something deeply odd about wearing flip flips for a stroll through the crunchy leaves that are quickly lining Bucktown’s sidewalks.  Likewise, I’m having a hard time reaching for my sundresses over my sweaters.  And all I want to eat is the produce that peaked a while ago, leaving brussels and gourds in its wake.

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We visited the Green City Market on Saturday morning, and I was struck by the duplicity of this time of year.  Depending which way you looked, you might’ve found yourself in one season or the other.  To your left, there’s a pile of sweet corn, pale green husks and flaxen silks stacked high—and it speaks of deep summer, of double-booked BBQs, and boat rides, and baseball.  Straight ahead, there’s a table of peppers of every hue—and they speak of late summer, Labor Day, and long, savored days.  But then, to the right, there are crates of apples, small and tart, telling of the autumn to come, multi-colored leaves, and thick sweaters, and mugs of hot cider.

Our feet, in other words, were in two worlds: one lingering in summer, while the other stepped into fall.  In light of this, I’ve been trying to straddle the seasons.  Burgers followed by apple crisp, for instance.  Or a peach pie, preceded by a hearty stew.  But, really, I’m trying not to let summer go, to send it off too soon.  So, while the weather might call for butternuts and brussels, my mind is still dreaming of some perfect summer meals gone by.

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The last few days of cooler weather and earlier sunsets have me nostalgic for the summer that’s all but slipped away.  For long nights on the deck.  For meandering walks through the neighborhood.  For fireflies and hoses and ice cream on a Wednesday evening.  There was all of that this summer, and there was a perfect weekend in the northwoods, too.  One I won’t forget soon.

Kevin and I drove from Chicago to the south shore of Lake Superior, to meet my family for a night of camping.  (Note to self: camp with my parents more often.  Their version of rustic is one that I can definitely get behind.)

Then we went into Minnesota, up along the north shore of Lake Superior—the shore I know like the back of my hand.

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The best recipes are born in an instant.  Or, at least that’s how they emerge in my world—in a split second, when hunger and inspiration collide, a product of the exact moment, the day, my mood, the weather, the season.  It’s what happened with this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this one.  And it’s what happened with this very satisfying, very quick, very of-the-season recipe: bucatini with cherry tomatoes, pancetta and basil.  This one was the result of a grey day—one that followed a brilliant string of blindingly sunny days; a long work day; a few nights of less-than-stellar sleep.  I wanted a warm bowl of something hearty and nourishing, but something that would not waste the precious, waning days of summer.

A basket of tiny tomatoes, red and gold alike, sat on the counter.  A package of bucatini was stashed in the pantry.  A few basil leaves threatened to wilt in the fridge.  And two thick rounds of pancetta were a mere trip to the corner market away—nothing a sweet call to Kevin, a quick bat of my eye lashes, and a promise of pasta! with pancetta! and plenty of parm! couldn’t solve.

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It’s that time of August when you realize that the end of summer is near, even if you can’t see it—like the moment after you pull the drain-stopper from a sink full of suds, just before the dishwater starts to twirl down the drain.  All is still and calm, before it unstoppably slips away.  Right now, in this moment, it’s not yet unstoppable.

Really, it’s a sweet spot of sorts.  The overnight temperatures have started to dip, granting a crisp early-morning reprieve from the sweltering weeks gone by.  But the evenings are still long and warm, sun-streaked and scented with grill smoke.  The markets are resplendent with tomatoes and melons and peaches and corn; we won’t be apple-picking for a few more weeks yet.  Hydrangea bushes heave with great big poms and the lush leaves atop the trees on either side of the street meet in the middle, arching into a sun-dappled canopy.  Those same leaves will go golden and crimson soon, before they the carpet sidewalks below.

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