On what may have been the last decently warm day for a long while, we planted next year's garlic before mulching the garden. We've devoted a spacious chunk of ground to the pungent little cloves that, theoretically, should each be a full bulb by next summer. There are so many cloves embedded in the soil that the garden started to smell like garlic, like a promise of sautéed and roasted dinners still months away.
And now it's gotten cold--it seems like every year the end of fall rear-ends the beginning of winter at an upsetting speed that doesn't allow one to adjust at all. There's frost on the car in the morning now and the months-long battle with the thermostat will begin. I changed out the summer coverlet for the winter bedding this weekend, just in the nick of time. Now I'm digging into soup recipes and planning on minestrone made with the tomato juice I canned a few months ago.