I saw them and, of one mind, hundreds undulated around the steeple in the pale, orange sky. A ballet of starlings. Traffic started and stopped around me, 5 pm on a Friday. I was trying to get to the damn, damn bank but road work and my stellar case of adult ADHD ended me up on the wrong side of the river. And so I saw the starlings crescendo around the steeple at sunset. I turned the radio up. Something about being high all the time or white t-shirts. Something about loss or love or sex or getting drunk, always.
And it’s good. I like that the radio only sings two, maybe three themes. It comforts me. It’s simple. You can only handle so many archetypes on a weekday. Sometimes I try to listen to this band I used to love, A Hawk & Hacksaw. That I still love. But now when I listen, when The Water Under the Moon comes on with its mournful strings, I start feeling feelings and thinking all kinds of thoughts. My head becomes populated by dead Russians and pale figures by fire light. Listening to anything that truly engages me is strolling upon an abyss. Not good for work. Not conducive to productivity.
When I hear Tim McGraw or Iggy Azalea on the radio, my mind goes the most wonderful white. It’s pure nothing, and I admit I love it. It doesn’t matter if they’re singing about dissolution or some apple-tini fueled nihilism or pick up trucks and denim. Country, pop, hip-hop. It never matters, and it’s all the same to me. It’s all love, love, love and the loss of it. On loop. A cultural background noise. And so you see, some of us, we think too much. Some of us would, of course, do well to think more. But I don’t see any point in living in the deeps. I’d very well drown there. So I turn the radio up and let the starlings whorl for nothing other than it’s autumn and metaphors are for the birds. I go home and open the mail. Make soup. For nothing other than it’s autumn.
My knife, it cuts through the firm flesh of gourds and apples. They roast, getting creamy with Portuguese olive oil and fat flakes of smoked sea salt. Meanwhile, in a copper pot I got god-knows-where a trinity of shallots, garlic, and butter coalesce. Add brandy, thyme. The smell alone will get you drunk. Then it mellows, turns jammy. The carmelized vegetables go into the aromatics, heady with sweet calvados, and it all simmers, for a moment, in a good stock with a hit of raw honey. A quick whir with the immersion blender. A splash of heavy cream. I’m hard pressed to ever not add a splash of heavy cream. Spicy pepitas. Sweet sunflower seeds. A pinch more of smoked salt. Herbs. A spoon. It’s autumn. And it’s the end of the day. So maybe I can afford to think, afford a moment with a new favorite alongside my bowl of soup, Lullaby & Doina by Osvaldo Golijov. I heard it for the first time in the dark, in the rain, driving. The station was going in and out. I thought about all the different ways I’ve loved. Always love, love for nothing like starlings that cannot, will not, scatter. And it’s autumn. I turn it up and eat.