Everybody wants to blame the goldenrod for their allergies this season. That’s because it’s the most visible supposed-offender, heralding its presence with those bright yellow blooms, crying out every time the sun reflects its golden light. But it’s not the goldenrod that’s making you sneeze, it’s most likely ragweed. Dispersing its sneeze-inducing pollen at the same time, only more unnoticeably, it gets away with the mischief and lets the goldenrod take the blame. The ragweed pollen flies on the slightest breeze – not so with the goldenrod. Yet it’s always the flashy ones that get the blame. I know what that’s like, and it’s never fair.

The first step of our kitchen renovation begins in earnest this weekend, as we meet with our designer to settle on a final layout, and decide on which contractor’s bid to accept. Our estimated completion time for this project is sometime in January, with the real work starting in November/December, just in time for the holiday season! As such, our holiday party will be a little different this year. Picture hard hats and construction tape. But it will (hopefully) be worth it. If for nothing else, for some great blog fodder, because you know it’s going to be disastrous at times. I’ve already toyed with the idea of taking a leave of absence and high-tailing it to Boston for the weeks of construction, but that would never be approved, so my co-workers are on high-alert that my normally-bitchy bearing will reach levels of unbearableness. Such is the price of a new kitchen.

As for how I’m going to get through a full kitchen reno with my new passion for cooking in full swing, I haven’t quite figured out yet. As I said, I anticipate being out of town for every weekend this takes place, if not staying at my parents full-time. Andy is welcome to come along, but he won’t, and I don’t want to hear any complaints. All I want is a granite peninsula and all will be right with the world. How we get to that point… well, fasten your seatbelts – it’s going to be a bumpy night.

Every night my bed becomes something else. Sometimes it is a rocket, sometimes it is a plane, sometimes it is a hotel in London, and sometimes it is a desert in the Middle East. Lately, my bed has been a boat, sailing along the coast of British Columbia, skirting bears and whales and foraging food from the sea. I drift along, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, as storms and sun vie for coverage, all from the safety of this little ocean of cotton, bordered by banks of pillows and a cliff of cushioned-head-board.

I am reading ‘The Curve of Time’ by M. Wylie Blanchet, having the sort of mentally-immersive experience that only the written word can provide – something richer than what is found on the internet, something more tangible than reading off a computer screen – I can’t explain it, but a real book, held in my hands and contained in its entirety, somehow means more. Maybe it’s my secretly-Thoreau-like aversion to technology, or the cranky old man in me finally coming into his own, but I’ll always prefer a book to a Nook, paper to tablet, ink to pixels. It reminds me of the comfort of reading a book in bed.

In lonely falls and winters, I dive down beneath the sheets and blankets, until just my head and hands are left in the open air, and hold a book close to my face, reading the words, grateful for the escape. Reading has always been that sort of savior for me. In the darkest times, and at my most worried, I could slip into bed at the end of the day, and go somewhere – anywhere – else. If I fretted about wasting time, of not making the most out of every minute, I would stop and read. Reading was never a waste, and I always got something out of it. It calmed me. It stilled the raging rest of my life. Like a soft bed, it quietly and steadfastly worked its magic, chipping away at the worries of a day until the mind was occupied with a wondrous tale of far-off lands and adventures.

To this day, nothing can relax me like a bout of reading before going to sleep. If I’m fortunate enough to be home in the morning, there is nothing more enjoyable than staking out a comfy spot on the couch in which I can luxuriate in the waves of words, letting them wash over the wreckage strewn along the beach of my heart, raking away trouble and consternation, like the cleansing kiss of high tide.

When fall arrives, and the nights turn chilly, I don’t mind staying at the condo in Boston and cooking for a friend or two. This past weekend I had Kira over, and we had a tamarind fish curry dish (my new obsession), with steamed rice, and sautéed spinach in a black garlic bean sauce. We lit a few candles, opened a bottle of Riesling, and had more fun than had we gone out and spent the better part of a Franklin.

Time with Kira is always relaxing (you can tell – she’s the one who took the first photo here: one of the more unguarded photos taken of me in a moment of sheer giddiness). We talked of the past, of the future, of fun things and serious issues, and lots and lots of silly nonsense – the stuff that friends talk about that means nothing and everything at once.

Sometimes there is more excitement to be found in what is not seen.

And oh, if you could have only seen what you cannot see…

It’s a photo-heavy day of posts, mainly because I’m in travel status and returning from Boston today. These are a few of my favorite photos from fall.