This is the last time I’m writing about tomatoes this year.

I’m serious. It’s snowing, and it’s time to move on — I get it.

This week I’m thinking about books.

Remember books?

I think in all this wild and crazy change, it’s good to remember books.  . . .

I’m feeling rejuvenated.

I spent the weekend at a wedding, my fifth of the season. One would think that I would be done with weddings and I would start to agree, but actually this one was my friend who finally got it together to marry a woman who is perfect for him, and I’ve exhaled a sigh of relief. He’s younger than I am, and fairly brotherly, and I think I’ve been worried — I didn’t realize it till now — but I think I’ve been worried for all these years that he wouldn’t get it together. He did well — he really exceeded my expectations and now he has a wife who is smarter than he is and almost as tall. I’m happy.

The husband left on Friday night and I got a day at the Harvest festival with the girls. It was clear blue after days of flooding rain and there we were three in a row holding hands, weaving through the people and the fried food and the vendors selling handmade American Doll clothes. We sucked on honey sticks, and we drank cider in the miniature garden. It’s just for kids, that garden, but I snuck in anyway.   . . .

Cold, then hot.  Cold, then hot.  It must be Fall.  Soon, it will be entirely soup weather, but until then?  One can never know.  Will it be spinach salad?  Or will it be…Indian lentil soup with spinach?  Better watch the weather.

Happy Autumn, friends.

And yes, we’re talking about spinach today.  But also? We’re talking about Laurie Colwin. . . .

I want to talk about garlic this week.

I threw a wedding in my backyard last week, and I’m in recovery. I almost didn’t make a thing today. (Yes, the wedding went well. It rained on us while we ate dinner, but the wine was good enough that that was okay. Thanks for asking.) I almost gave you a little rundown of other garlic recipes that I’ve made — you know, roasted leg of lamb with garlic sauce or roasted garlic, onion and potato galette, or of course the king of kings garlic lemonade, or I guess when you come to think of it, just about everything I make around here that isn’t dessert.

But then I couldn’t resist shoving all the other things I had to do aside so that I could make something for you here. Because the truth is, I’ve really been wanting to tell you about this book.

Yes, I have pastoral British envy. I want elderflower rhubarb fool after the heritage roast that I cut myself and roasted on a spit in my very old hearth. I want stone walls and children with accents even though they wouldn’t really be accents because that’s how they talk. Sometimes, I just want to live in the River Cottage Books.

This is a new one — little and unassuming, written by Pam Corbin, containing nearly zero paranoia about canning safety. Put it in a jar. Put it on the shelf. As long as you are noble of heart, it will be good.  . . .

Okay, I get it. I will never cut a hot pepper without a glove on. I promise.

It’s taken me a while to get to this point. I’ve deep fried chiles and I’ve turned them into salsa. I’ve caressed them, slipped them out of their skins, and carefully removed every seed. I like to get intimate with my hot peppers.

But today we took our relationship to a whole new level. Random, single and lonely hot peppers scattered throughout the refrigerator. Dainty cherry bells, withered jalepenos just past their peak, royal crimson lees, exotic Hungarian hot wax. They all roasted under that broiler together, and the smell of their popping skins was almost, you know, like that place I love this time of year. My eyes stung, my throat constricted around invisible spice, and I kept the girls out of the kitchen.  . . .

We’re all a bit silly around here this week. The end of the summer, perhaps, the changing of the air pressure — who can explain it? Or maybe it might have something to do with the ruby orbs so recently hanging on our little wee plum trees.

We planted our orchard two years ago- nine trees of various persuasions in the front yard. I loved them so completely and immediately that I started to feel like when people asked me how many children I had, I should answer "two… and nine fruit trees." I sang to those trees, caressed their leaves and watered them with the perfect trickle at the root for the perfect amount of time.  . . .

I have been to Paris exactly three times.

The first was exactly as it should be: eighteen, with a tormented lover who was in turn tormenting me. March, dismally gray, and all of our money spent on a disgusting hotel. We lived on bread only, with the occasional can of tuna fish for sustenance.

The bread was a revelation.

The second was eight weeks later, at the end of the same trip. This time too was exactly as it should be. Lover gone, and I, free and newly tattooed from my wanderings in Eastern Europe, had money this time, and the sun shone every day. A whole week with a dear friend who was staying with a friend who had a bathtub in her kitchen. There was wine that we bought on the corner, and several croissants a day.

As hard as I’ve tried, I’ll tell you those croissants have not been forgotten.

My third visit to Paris was just last year, in the middle of my work trip, when I was, it seemed living someone else’s life for a bit. I was only at the airport, so I wouldn’t normally count it, except that I take my Paris visits where I can get them. And I flew into one airport and had to fly out of another, so technically I did drive through the city. And of course, right before I got on the plane, there was a croissant. . . .