Autumnal Quotes

“The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.”
― E.M. Forster, Howards End

“It was the golden time of year. Every day the leaves grew brighter, the air sharper, the grass more brilliant. The sunsets seemed to expand and melt and stretch for hours, and the brick façades glowed pink, and everything got bluer. How many perfect autumns did a person get?”
― Elif Batuman, Either/Or

“I think the seasons complete me-
for once autumn comes
I can fall freely
along with every leave.
I do not have to bloom,
yet, I must die
in every delicate line of October.”
― Laura Chouette

“The morning was, therefore, a mixture of a plenitude of densities, from the presence of the placid birds, to the mundane premonition, to the spring of small glisters which accompanied that autumnal rain. The music, in a simple whistle, recreated a new universe with the parish and all the hearts that were witness to it- padre, pigeons, swallows, the world!- were clothed in a new carnivalesque colouring: a celebration from within.”
― Ondjaki, The Whistler

“She began to scroll through her Pinterest board. Flowers blossomed on the screen. The golds and ochres first. Golden peonies, apricot honeysuckle, saffron, poppies the color of amber.”
― Ella Griffin, The Flower Arrangement

“The morning of September 1st met the citizen of the village shining with beautiful sunny weather.
A refreshing breeze, enriched by acerb fragrances of maple, oak, and poplar tree leaves that already began changing their colors for autumn, blew from the lake.”
― Sahara Sanders, Gods’ Food

“Now we add the cinnamon," I said. "Sticks, not powder; broken in half. Three or four should do the trick-" The summery scent had turned autumnal; bonfires and Halloween. Cinnamon pancakes cooked outside. Mulled wine and burnt sugar.”
― Joanne Harris, Peaches for Father Francis

“She could picture it now, a huge stack of fluffy pumpkin waffles with maple syrup and spiced cinnamon butter, the perfect breakfast for fall. Something that tasted like crisp, cool air and golden-orange leaves and bundling up in her favorite sweater. Something that tasted like home.”
― Stephanie Kate Strohm, Love à la Mode

“November was my favorite time of the year because so many of the foods that stirred my cooking spirit burst into the season---mussels, oysters, and a variety of squashes exploding in yellows and oranges, including my former nemesis: the potimarron.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“Jasmine stopped at the entrance of Sutton Place Gourmet and sniffed. Pumpkin. She could smell the gourds from where she stood. A good start. Let's see. She sniffed again. A bit of thyme. Not sage. Thyme. Her brain stretched and shook the cobwebs away. Ummm, pumpkin braised until meltingly soft, mashed with mascarpone and spread between thin layers of fresh pasta... a delicate cream sauce infused with thyme. Would it work? A touch of very, very slowly cooked and mellow garlic. That would be the trick. Dash of nutmeg. Yes. Jasmine was salivating as she pushed her cart toward the vegetable section.
Freshly spritzed vegetables lay glistening in brightly colored rows. Cabbage of cobalt blue, fern-green fresh dill, and cut pumpkin the color of riotous caramel. Jasmine rubbed her hands together. Autumn was a favorite season for her. Most cooks preferred spring and summer, yearning for fresh bites of flavor after a dark, heavy winter. The fragrant tomatoes, the bright bursting berries, the new spring vegetables as lively and adorable as new lambs. But Jasmine yearned for the rich tastes of the earth. She was a glutton for root vegetables, simmered in stocks, enriched with butter and dark leafy herbs. She imagined them creamy, melting on her tongue, the nutrients of the rich soil infusing her blood.”
― Nina Killham, How to Cook a Tart

“After bidding her family good-bye, Beatrix went out to the front drive with Christopher. He had changed from his uniform, with its gleaming jangle of medals, and wore simple tweed and broadcloth, with a simple white cravat tied at his neck. She much preferred him this way, in rougher, simpler clothing- the splendor of Christopher in military dress was nearly too dazzling to bear. The sun was a rich autumn gold, lowering into the black nest of treetops.
Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher's large bay gelding.
Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. "Don't I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?"
His lips twitched. "We'll ride together, if you're willing. I have a surprise for you."
"How unconventional of you."
"Yes, I thought that would please you." He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her.
No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

“Although it is traditionally associated with the end of summer and the impending arrival of autumn, September has always seemed to me a month of beginnings, a spring of sorts—possibly because it marks the commencement of the academic year.”
― Mohsin Hamid, The Reluctant Fundamentalist

“Red and white wine/Manischewitz cocktails
Apple cider challah/homemade date honey
Potato and apple tart with horseradish cream
Old-Fashioned braised brisket with tomatoes and paprika
Tzimmes duo: Honeyed parsnips with currants and saffron,
sweet potatoes with dried pears and prunes
Stuffed cabbage
Mini Jewish apple cakes with honeycomb ice cream

"What's the difference between 'Jewish apple cake' and regular apple cake?" Rachel asks.
I shrug. "Not sure. Maybe the fact that it's made with oil instead of butter? I think it's a regional thing.”
― Dana Bate, The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

“Diana braced herself for the glare of the sun, the crowds and the cacophony of taxi horns, but New York delivered one of those rare, perfect autumn twilights. The air was cool and faintly fall-scented; the sky was a rich, lustrous blue, and everyone seemed to have slowed down enough to appreciate the night's beauty.
"Oh, wow." Daisy gave a dreamy sigh, then looked sideways at Diana and smiled. "You probably think I'm a total country bumpkin."
"No," said Diana, because she could see what Daisy was seeing. "Magic hour. That's what photographers call it. That light at the very end of the day.”
― Jennifer Weiner, That Summer

“A plate of lobster rolls came next, followed by a romaine lettuce salad in a cut-glass bowl topped with fresh pear slices, walnuts, cranberries, and blue cheese crumbles. Glasses of sparkling water.
"Apple dumplings for dessert," said Amelia, as she settled on the chair Cade held for her. She gave him a soft smile, patted his hand. "Help yourselves.”
― Kate Angell, The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine

“A gust of sharp autumn air blew down the corridor, rippling my skirt and lifting my hair. I spun around, tasting wood smoke. Behind me was a plain wooden wall on which hung a floor-length mirror: its bronze frame was molded into countless nymphs and satyrs frolicking among grapevines.”
― Rosamund Hodge, Cruel Beauty

“In the evening, Kye used our rice cooker to make homemade yaksik. She mixed rice with local honey, soy sauce, and sesame oil, adding pine nuts, pitted jujubes, raisins, and chestnuts. She rolled the mixture out on a cutting board and divided the flattened cake into smaller squares. Fresh out of the rice cooker it was steaming and gooey. The colors were golden and autumnal, the jujubes a rich, dark red, the light-beige chestnuts framed by the bronze, caramelized rice.”
― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart

“Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard.
---WALT WHITMAN”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, Together at the Table

“I walked the Greenmarket stalls during my break. The leaves were riotous but I couldn't focus on them. I only saw apples. Stacked, primed for tumbling. Empires, Braeburns, Pink Ladies, Macouns. Women in tights, men in scarves. Vats of cider, steaming. I bought an apple and ate it.
Did I understand the fragrance and heft? The too-sweetness of the pulpy flesh? Had I ever felt the fatality of autumn like my bones did now, while I watched the pensive currents of foot traffic? A muted hopelessness pressed on me. I lay under it. At that point I couldn't remember the orchards, the blossoms, the life of the apple outside of the city. I only knew that it was a humble fruit, made for unremarkable moments. It's just food, I thought as I finished it, core and all. And yet it carries us into winter. It holds us steady.”
― Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter

“God has designed the world in a way that illustrates 'yet'; the green leaves lose their colour, but reveal one true colour that's been there all along.”
― Rachael Newham, And Yet: Finding Joy in Lament

“At the last market of the season I still had produce to sell. My pumpkin vines had flourished, so I could lay out eighteen small, golden sugar pumpkins, perfect for pies. I also had potatoes and carrots and a dozen jars of blackberry preserves. Charlotte and I were especially proud of those. The glass jars with their felt-topped lids glowed like garnets in the autumn sun.”
― Louisa Morgan, The Witch's Kind

“A fresh fig is a coy fruit. Fresh figs hide out a bit. Their exterior is sober, matte--- a dignified, often dusky, royal purple. But crack one open, and you have a pulpy, fleshy kaleidoscope of seeds. A ripe fig, like the cheeks of a well-fed child, should give slightly when you squeeze.
Figs make an excellent transition from summer to autumn cuisine. This is particularly useful this time of year in Provence, when we are eating in the garden one day, turning on the heat the next.
Fresh figs are at home alfresco, in a rocket salad with Golden Delicious apples, pine nuts, and picnic cheeses or roasted with slices of Roquefort and a drizzle of honey to begin a fall fireside dinner.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes