A Memoir of Apple Fritters, Sticky Fingers, and the Hope That Comes Before the Leaves Do
Setting: August 3, 2025, Zarpentine Farm, a hot summer afternoon
It was nothing, really — a short drive, a quick stop. But it felt bigger than that. It felt momentous.
August 3rd. Eighty-four degrees. The kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes you question your choices. But we were going to celebrate fall, dammit.
One of the local farm market bakeries had just reopened for the season. The shelves were still mostly bare — no cider yet, no pumpkins — but that didn’t matter. The minute the kids got back from their dad’s, I knew: it was time.
Holden and I climbed into the car and headed straight there. We pulled up out front, and he struck a sweaty, half-hearted pose on the hay bale display. I snapped the photo anyway. There’s something sacred about the first fall photo — even if the leaves are still green and the sweat is soaking through our shirts.
Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and yeast and not quite enough air conditioning. But we found what we came for: apple fritters. Golden. Sticky. Warm in our hands.
Fall in a bite. In August. A ritual that made everything feel right again — even if the calendar, and the weather, disagreed.
We were sweating. The shelves were bare. But we had fritters. We had fall. And we had hope — just a little early this year.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
No comments