By the time dinnertime rolled around yesterday we needed some comforting. The double-injection site where we were given both our annual flu shot and the newly-approved bivalent COVID/Omicron booster shot was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The comfort we sought came in the form of a hot, fragrant soup. Earlier in the day I had made the first preparations, cubing and toasting slices of old sourdough bread slathered with butter, garlic powder and grated Parmesan to an aromatic, crisp light brown.  

 

When we returned from our ravine ramble with Jackie and Jillie in the late afternoon I put on the onion soup to cook with onions so fresh and dense I really had to press hard with a sharp knife to get the slices I needed; the garlic clove was far more accommodating. Assembling the soup at the last minute requires no time at all, and the fragrance of it wafting from the little counter-top oven through the kitchen assured us we'd soon be feeling better. A fresh vegetable salad prefacing the soup and a fruit salad of pears, plums and kiwis kind of bookended the meal.

 

After dinner the glow of comfort began to fade and the ache in our upper left arm grew. Once in bed it seemed to subside, but when we woke in the morning it was even more intense. That was not to last; as soon as we got going with the day's routine, while the site remained tender to the touch the pain was wholly alleviated. 

Except for the fact that our too-brief flirtation with Indian Summer suddenly came to an abrupt end. Yesterday's 21C on a bright sunny day is now a fond memory. We're back into deep fall, with 50mph bursts of wind and a daytime high temperature of 9C. But sunny, and that makes a difference. A slightly unbalanced difference, however, since the sun wasn't quite able to mellow the effect of the wind and cold.

 

For Jackie and Jillie that meant back to wearing their little sweaters. For us, warm jackets as we forged our way into the afternoon through forest trails where the wind slightly abated and the scene that met our eyes was one of an absence of leaves on all the deciduous trees. The first thing I noticed when we came down to breakfast this morning was that our beautiful old magnolia had shed all its leaves, as did the three ornamental crabs. The weeping mulberries will be next since we're expecting -2C to hit tonight.

 

As we descended into the ravine we met up with one of our neighbours ascending the trail to street level. He lives even closer to the forest than we do, his backyard actually backs on to it; our house is located across the street from his. He's lived on the street as long as we have and he's never been in the ravine before. He's decided that from now on, he'll make it a daily practise to take himself for a trek through the ravine in the realization that it would add enormously to the status of his future health.

 

Even that raging wind that mostly surged through the height of the tree canopy no longer sent down showers of leaves. On occasion a lonely little leaf would come swirling down to find its place among the piles on the forest floor of its cousins, lost in the crowd of the leaf mass already beginning to crumble and take on that uniform dismal appearance shed of colour.

 

When we arrived back home, Jackie and Jillie gobbled up their vegetable salad treat and I took myself back out to the garden. Still cutting back hosta leaves and hydrangeas. But mostly to sweep and gather up the thick layers of fallen foliage engulfing our walkway from the freshly-barren trees. It was light fall maintenance clean-up and despite the cold and the penetrating wind it just felt invigorating to be out there, busying about.

 

 

Although I did pluck some of the annuals for composting, it's just not yet possible to do any of that with the everblooming begonias. They're determined to live up to their names, even in this kind of inclement weather. They remain fresh and vibrant looking, crowding the garden urns and pots and the garden beds as well. It remains to be seen how well they'll be able to carry on given oncoming nights of ever-increasing frost levels. Until then, they'll remain in place to continue delighting us with their presence.