Well, I absolutely butchered the soup, but otherwise, I felt happy as a little trout out in the cold, bright woods this weekend. I think the problem was the big cast iron cauldron I used; it's new (okay, it's probably older than I am, but new to me) and though of course I had washed it out, I think it still had a really gross sooty flavor sticking onto it. I actually took my time cleaning it and oiling it after that mess, and when I made a side dish of polenta grits later in the camp, the flavor was really good, so hopefully that will be the resolution of that.

Otherwise, the woods were golden, the sky was creamy, and I liked to wander off into the woods and listen to the quiet. The leaves were falling in a way that sounded almost like rain, but it was quite dry. It was one of those camping trips where it actually felt good to sleep, in spite of my mismatched mess of blankets and underweather sleeping bag and big heavy hog dog. Last night, everyone went to bed but I was still really awake, so I sat up by the fire, reading my dumb poetry book by candle light, listening to the woods: the clicking of the leaves falling around me, the soft sounds of the low fire, distant coyotes, my friends quietly fucking in their tent a little ways away from me, occasionally an owl. The last time I was camping in October like that, I remember seeing so many stars fall - flashes of light like lightning over the mountain. Last year, I wrote a very overwrought poem about it. 

You'd think I'd be tired of the woods, but of course I'm not. I should be at home cleaning my porch for the trick-or-treaters, but I think I'll go out to the villa a little bit. I haven't gotten tired of the falling leaves or the color, and I'm dreamy lately, soft and full of feelings.