I am obsessed with fall.
I know August has barely ended yet, but I am already excited. September and October are my favorite months of the year. I put up with the other 10 just to get to those 2. I have lived in New England my whole life and I don't think I could ever go anywhere that doesn't do fall like we do.
I love the cool air; something just feels fresher when you breathe in. I love sweaters and hoodies. I love hand-knit beanies. I love light-weight jackets and pants with hole-y knees. I love the colors, the bright, glowing reds and crisp, burnt oranges. I love sitting cozied into a blanket. Corn mazes. Apples that go crunch as your teeth first break their surface. I love pumpkin pie made from REAL pumpkin, not the kind that has been captured and packed into a can. I love fires bonfires and the sound of wood popping. I love the sound of a light breeze pulling leaves from the trees and bringly them slowly down to tickle the ground below. I love the noise feet make as they shuffle through the fallen leaves.
Fall is seriously the best thing ever.
So, I am beginning a series. Partly for photography skill building, but mostly for my huge love of autumn. I'm going to document what I see as a Isabella Kiss/New England fall. Starting now...
And it is not a pumpkin, a corn maze, or a flannel shirt. I'll give you that...
These are wild grapes. They grow (yes, wildly, hence the name...) in my yard towards summer's end. Today my brothers loaded a bucket with them. I got really excited. I love them! (the grapes...well, my brothers too, but we are talking about grapes here.)
First off, you need to know I do not like regular grocery store grapes. They are squishy and nasty, in my opinion. But these are different. They are smaller. Dark purpley-blue. And are mighty tart, some more so than others. Inside are little seeds, which you could spit out, but I rather enjoy them; they make your tongue tingle.
I think my love of these sour little buggers goes back to my early childhood (just like most of what I love). I remember as a little kid...like 5 or younger... I was at grandmother's house a lot while my mom was working. In her backyard she had a bunch of wild grapes growing from a...it was like a canopy...A tent of grapes? My Hungarian grandfather had built it. My uncle, who was in college and living at home at that time, would put me on his shoulders so I could reach and we would pick the grapes. We put some of them in a container, but we ate most of what we picked. They were deliciously sour and tongue tingling.
Every time I pop a wild grape in my mouth, that is what I think of. And it is a fond, fallish memory.