The Call of Autumn

The morning air was brisk and invigorating, sharp with the kind of chill that felt like a wake-up call from autumn itself, whispering, “Get cozy; the season’s here.” As I stepped out of the car at Morning Glory Farm, the earthy aroma of freshly tilled soil embraced me like a favorite woolen blanket. Eleanor Rigby, my ever-curious, unapologetically mischievous dog, bounded out after me, her tail wagging with the enthusiasm of a creature convinced that today promised greatness—or at least snacks.

A Step into Harvest Reverie

Stepping into the farmstand felt like stepping into a harvest reverie, where the essence of Martha’s Vineyard’s agricultural heritage enveloped you in warmth and rustic charm. Wooden beams arched gracefully overhead, framing a sunlit interior alive with the vibrant hues of the season. The farmstand radiated the riotous splendor of autumn’s bounty. It was as though nature herself had taken up a paintbrush, blending hues of ochre, deep emerald, russet, and fiery orange into a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of abundance.

Sights, Scents, and Samples

Baskets brimmed with vibrant produce, from the earthy greens of cavolo nero to the luminous reds and yellows of late peaches. The scent of fresh-baked bread mingled with the faint perfume of apples, creating an ambiance so inviting that even Eleanor slowed her usually frantic pace.

Pumpkin Antics and Gourd Misadventures

The farm was buzzing with quiet energy. Shoppers, bundled in scarves and jackets, exchanged recipe tips as they filled their baskets. A friendly staff member at the bakery counter waved me over, offering a sample of warm zucchini bread. I couldn’t resist, and as I bit into the soft, spiced sweetness, I knew this visit was already a triumph. Eleanor, naturally, turned her most hopeful gaze toward me, convinced the cake was meant to be shared.

Eleanor's Demolition Dreams

Towering pyramids of pumpkins stood proudly on display, their ridged skins glowing like burnished lanterns in the soft light. Eleanor, however, was unimpressed by their artistry, her focus entirely on their potential as oversized toys. I caught her mid-headbutt with a particularly large pumpkin, her enthusiasm and persistence suggesting a budding career in pumpkin demolition. A few amused shoppers chuckled as she made another valiant attempt before I managed to redirect her attention to a less destructible patch of gourds.

Autumn’s Edible Parade

Nearby, cavolo nero stood regal and solemn, its crinkled, almost-black leaves resembling an autumn queen in her finest gown. Rainbow chard, with stems glowing ruby red and sunshine yellow, jostled for attention, while parsnips lounged lazily, exuding a quiet confidence in their earthy allure. Late peaches and glossy blackberries spilled over wooden baskets, a luscious, defiant farewell to summer.

The Apple Affair Begins

And then there were the apples—glorious, glistening heaps of crimson, gold, and green perfection, each one gleaming as if freshly polished. They seemed to whisper promises of pie, buttery crusts, and the heady warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg. Nearby, pears perched with frosty elegance, their skins so crisp they might shatter under a knife. Eleanor sniffed at a bin of chestnuts, her nose twitching like a detective on the scent of something scandalous. One particularly dusty nut made her sneeze dramatically, and she trotted off in indignation.

A Basket Full of Nostalgia

I selected four pounds of apples—Granny Smiths for their sharp, tart bite and firm texture, and McIntoshes for their soft, juicy sweetness. Their combined weight in my arms felt reassuring, as though I were cradling nostalgia itself. On my way out, two flame-hued pumpkins caught my eye. They were destined for the Thanksgiving table, their beauty too enchanting to resist. Eleanor eyed them skeptically, perhaps wondering if they were edible, throwable, or possibly some sort of alien invader.

Home Again, to Happy Days Cottage

Back at Happy Days Cottage, Eleanor flopped onto the rug, thoroughly satisfied with her morning escapades. The kitchen, with its wide windows framing a picture-perfect autumn day, felt warm and inviting. The cerulean sky stretched endlessly, interrupted only by the occasional flutter of golden leaves falling in lazy spirals. I set the mood with music—Louis Armstrong’s gravelly warmth filled the room, followed by Etta James, her honeyed voice wrapping around me like an embrace. If you’re making pie, after all, it should be done with a touch of soul.

Pie Prep and Pup Drama

As I began the dough, Eleanor decided to resume her duties as my unofficial kitchen assistant. She stationed herself strategically underfoot, watching intently as I worked cold butter and shortening into the flour. Her hopeful eyes followed every movement, and when a stray bit of dough fell to the floor, she pounced with the speed of a seasoned opportunist.

The Patience of Pastry

Each press and fold of the dough felt meditative, like a dance between precision and intuition. Eleanor occasionally broke the silence with an exaggerated sigh, her patience wearing thin as she realized this was not a cooking session meant for her benefit. When I turned my back to retrieve a rolling pin, I caught her inching closer to the counter, her nose twitching with determination. A firm “No, Eleanor,” sent her retreating to her corner, where she settled with a huff, her eyes fixed on the oven as if willing it to produce something magical.

Simmering Spices and Apple Alchemy

As the apples softened on the stove, their juices mingling with sugar, lemon zest, and a symphony of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice, the kitchen transformed into a sanctuary of scent. The warm, spiced aroma wrapped itself around me, filling every corner with the promise of comfort. I reduced their juices, along with a quart of apple cider, into a rich, amber syrup—a secret weapon that gave my pies their unmistakable apple perfume. Eleanor sniffed the air appreciatively, her nose twitching with approval, though her occasional dramatic groans suggested she was unimpressed by the lack of samples.

The Legacy of Mrs. Rawlinson

As I layered the tender apples into the shell, I thought of Mrs. Rawlinson. She had taught me to bake as a boy in Liverpool, her small, sunlit kitchen filled with the hum of life and the wisdom of her hands. She would hum softly as she worked, her hands steady as they crimped the edges of a pie crust. Her lessons—patience with the dough, trust in the process, and always let the pie cool properly—rang in my mind like a familiar refrain. Today, as I crimped the edges and brushed the top with egg wash, I felt her presence in every move.

A Still Moment in the Warmth

The pie slid into the oven, its crust sparkling with sugar, and I finally sank into my favorite chair with a steaming mug of tea. Eleanor curled up at my feet, letting out the occasional theatrical sigh to remind me of her suffering. The kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the kind of stillness that invites reflection. Outside, the light softened into amber hues as shadows stretched long across the lawn.

The First Slice of Autumn

When the pie had cooled, I sliced into it. The knife glided effortlessly through its deeply golden crust, the lattice shattering into delicate, buttery shards, each whispering promises of indulgence. Beneath, the filling spilled forth in luscious, spiced ribbons—apples tender and glossy, their sweetness mingling with the warm embrace of cinnamon and nutmeg. Every slice revealed a symphony of textures, the crisp crust yielding to the soft, fragrant heart of the pie. It was as if autumn itself had been captured and served on a plate.

A Perfect Autumn Day

As I savored each bite, I thought of Morning Glory Farm, the beauty of the season, and the enduring magic of baking something both simple and extraordinary. Eleanor, now stretched out in a contented nap, seemed to share my satisfaction. The room hummed with warmth, music, and the lingering aroma of pie. The day had been nothing short of perfect—a harmony of laughter, love, and the quiet joys of autumn’s gifts.