Riding the Pumpkin


There’s something about the burnished hues of fall and the crisp smoky air that signals a coming of age for the earth and channels a separate peace within me that none of the other seasons accomplish. A season of refuge, it’s the first opportunity to hunker down against the razor chafe of Chicago’s winds. No longer celebrating the freshness of spring or luxuriating in the summer sun, I urgently seek warmth and sustenance in hearty braises like winy rosemary-perfumed pot roast or chocolate-dusted short ribs.