Last night, it frosted in Madison.  For those of you who, for whatever reason, are sweating while you read this, take a minute to think about that.  While I slept with socks on, outside it was the temperature at which water turns to ice.  This is autumn in Wisconsin.

I am not going to lie – I was relieved the frost killed half of my basil plant.  The leaves turned from bright green to a dark purple, the color of a deep bruise.    I used to go to the garden and wonder how I’d ever be able to capture the abundance; save the basil for later consumption.  How many jars of pesto can a girl reasonably expect to make in just one harvest? (I am at twelve and counting.)

I am grateful for the frost and the power of autumn to force you leave somethings behind, undone.