New York

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The weeks and words are slipping through my fingers
Faster than the leaves are turning golden, red, brown
We find ourselves in Prospect Park
Where the afternoon sun still holds on with all its strength
To keep us warm and in denial

Until the sudden gust of wind briskly reminds us:
Autumn is here.


40/52 Autumn


Autumn is in the air. The colours are changing. And so are we.

We make our last trip away as a family of three, visiting the village of Meana Sardo as part of the¬†Autumn in Barbagia festival. I watch a demonstration of how to make Pan’ e’ Saba, a traditional Sardinian celebration cake with sapa- grape must, trying to take mental notes about the feel, weight, texture of the dough- made by hand and eye, not measuring scales- so that I can replicate it at home.


On route we spend the night at Laconi, a lovely village and agriturismo that we have visited many times, but not since 2008, when we were planning our wedding and our two girls were nothing but jewel seeds, gems, waiting in our hearts to sprout.