Kitchen Shelf at the 4 O’clocks

This is a picture of my kitchen shelf. It speaks eloquently about one of my favorite months: November. November makes me hungry for bowl food like garlicky tomato white bean soup; like roasted potatoes with rosemary; like steaming spaghetti with roasted red peppers, olives, and feta; like black bean chili; like brown rice and tofu and caramelized onions; like bread pudding; like steamed broccoli with sauteed sunflower seeds. Simple, hot, earthy, bowl food in front of the fire is one of November’s joys.

So are the bare trees clacking in the wind and behind them the violet, purple sky and the sun falling so fast into China, you have only minutes to spare before November wraps you in darkness. The so so so short days make me want to bottle the light out on the sunporch and put it on the pantry shelf to drizzle like honey over the thick hunk of soda bread I’m craving.

November is a month to see what the neighborhood really looks like; it’s a no-place-to hide kind of time. I walk down familiar streets and am surprised…I didn’t know there was a fence there; is that a house behind that barn; where does that dirt lane lead to; who knew there were old roses climbing up that outbuilding or a swimming pool in that backyard or a doghouse with a weathervane on top.

My house begs for layers: lace upon tattered lace at the drafty windows; knitted afgans over rumpled linen over flannels on the bed; tweed slipcovers; scratchy, threadbare rugs on the chilly floors. And Boris, the furnace, is whooshing his melodies in my already whooshing right ear. I beg for layers too. It’s a bit of a paradox, all that stark, bare November light insisting upon leggings and boots and socks and undershirts and petticoats and cashmere cardigans and David Copperfield gloves and woolly little hats and scarves and black, bat-winged coats.

November is no-nonsense. She’s like a friend who tells you the truth. She wants your courage. She wants to know you can take care of yourself, that you can make a hearty casserole, withstand the winds, hold out your arms to the darkness, keep yourself warm. She wants to know you, plain and simple. No guss. No fuss. Just good old gumption and honest soda bread and a steaming bowl of that garlicky homemade soup.