miami fall

by Klara Davidson-Schmich

For anyone who grew up outside of some key parts of the northern hemisphere with deciduous trees, fall is more of a concept than a reality. In Miami, the temperature will start to dip into the 70s, but the leaves stay resolutely green, and there are no pumpkins or apples to be picked. Still, the phenomenon of fall as leaf cut-outs of construction paper and gourds around the house is everywhere. There are pictures of my brother and I carving pumpkins by the side of our pool in short sleeves, palm trees in the background—though the environmental signifiers of autumn are missing, our adherence to tradition is strict. Pumpkins bought at Publix instead of picked from a pumpkin patch, Thanksgiving on the back porch in 80° weather. In some ways, it's strange to have the specter of New England autumn defining your own subtropical one. You grow up buying into visions of changing leaves that you’ve never seen and hoping for snow you know will never fall. In another way though, when the days are all the same and little delineates  October from November, it's nice to rely on another marker for the changing days. To wait not for the leaves to turn, but for the next excuse to celebrate. To have a fall based not on the slow descent into winter, but only on tradition.

trick or treat

by Tabitha Lynn

In my family, Halloween is no small affair. October in elementary and middle school was a spectacle: a whirlwind of brainstorming, designing, and building all leading up to the 31st. The first sign of a crisp breeze in the air seemed to cue the beginning of my favorite holiday. When October rolled around in third grade, I was obsessed with Harry Potter. But for Halloween, I didn’t dream of dressing up as Cho Chang, Hermione, or even Dobby. I wanted to be the book. So we did just that: constructing a foam book and leaving just enough space for four little arms and legs to stick through the sides. Stroke by stroke, my dad recreated the Sorcerer's Stone cover with acrylic paint. Tinges of gold for the title, specks of white to show the reflection in Harry’s glasses, a thin black line for his scar. 

Harry Potter was only the beginning. Each Halloween until the end of middle school was the same: a month spent planning a costume I would wear for only one day. On Halloween night, I would shuffle around in a costume not meant for walking, the details of the art lit up by porch lights and flashlights from trick-or-treaters. Parents would open up their doors, greeted by a massive piece of foam or cardboard or tubing with a head peeking out the top. 

This past weekend, I celebrated Halloween a little differently, donning last-minute costumes scavenged from my friends’ closets. Still, the spirit of the holiday remains: scouring the internet for the perfect costume, the biting chill on Halloween night, and making new traditions with the people I love. 

we have fall at home

by Kathy Gonzalez

 

The scent of pumpkin cupcakes fills the room. Heavy clouds obscure the late afternoon sky and raindrops lash against my window in rhythmic patterns. I put on my fuzzy slippers and make myself a coffee. I make space for my cat in bed and face the most challenging decision of my day yet: Gilmore Girls or American Horror Story? I pride myself on my media selection, my knack for curating a cozy ambiance, and most importantly, my ability to overlook the fact that it’s 85º outside and leaves are only falling because it’s hurricane season.

For most of my life, I have had a parasocial relationship with fall. Before coming to college, fall was a distant dream—a season I would see in movies, read about in books, and experience only on vacations to Boston or New York City. The only things Miami could offer me were endless humidity and sun-drenched heat that pressed against me, holding me too close, refusing to let me breathe. To reconcile this incompatibility, it became a tradition of mine to simulate fall at home. Flannel-scented hand sanitizer, pumpkin spice lattes, wool cardigans—I had it all. It felt as though every cinnamon-scented candle I lit, every scary movie I watched, and every maple leaf garland I hung up would bring me that much closer to the real thing. One day. Soon enough.

As my fourth official fall gradually transforms into winter, I am happy to admit that I am just as, if not more, entranced by fall and its magic. Everything I longed for—the feeling of bundling up, of the crisp air nipping at my cheeks, of crunching leaves with every step—has materialized, and I can’t help but be overcome with wonder and gratitude. I hold my tradition of simulating fall near and dear to my heart, as it gives way to new traditions shaped by the experience of true autumn. With my dreams and reality as one, I wander around these cobblestone streets just a little slower, holding on just a little longer to the fleeting warmth of the season and a new sense of possibility. 

the great maffa-cheng-mooncai bake-off

by Joe Maffa

Once the horror movies have stopped dropping, the tricks have burrowed themselves back into storage, and all of the children in the neighborhood have returned home with their plastic pumpkins full of treats, our family goes into overdrive: T-minus four weeks until bake-off.

Every Thanksgiving, a day which, before this new tradition even started, I already treated as a competitive eating competition of sorts, my family runs a high-stakes bake-off. Our spin on your favorite British baking competition—sans the accents and cringe-worthy ironic hosts (though the comparison has definitely been made between my uncle and Noel Fielding)—is just the single showstopper round. Previous competitions have facilitated our foray into the deep cooking unknown: how to get the perfect “feet” on a macaron, finding the delicate balance between a crunchy and doughy bagel, the nebulous definition of what exactly constitutes ravioli. I would be lying if I said we kept it civil.

My mother is the top dog—the one my aunts and uncles and cousins and, in recent years, my brother and myself, are always gunning for. She’s a perfectionist, putting weeks of testing and experimentation into that finished product she brings to the judging table, or, our Thanksgiving dinner table, complete with the turkey, candied yams, green beans, and all of the regular fixings. 

But what goes unnoticed in the heat of the competition are the weeks of delicious taste-testing that I contribute to her eventual win. Believe me when I say, it is my pleasure to be a part of such a noble cause. 

Halloween has passed, and to that I say: On your marks, get set, bake!

rotten to the core

by Elijah Puente

Every year, the arrival of fall revives long-standing debates in my hometown: pumpkin or apple donuts, cherry or regular apple cider? People may never agree on these questions, but it’s universally accepted that County Line Orchard is the spot to be during fall in Northwest Indiana. My mouth waters, eagerly awaiting the opening day of this iconic apple orchard for all the goodies it offers and the memories it holds. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen their beehives on an elementary school field trip or left covered in the smell of smoke after a bonfire in their rentable pits. Everyone knows about this place. The donuts are always fresh, because of the constant line to get them. However, it seems they started using a cheaper dough as the hoards of people discovered this once-hidden gem. The fudge has started to taste fake. People are constantly mad that they turn the busy road into a one-way due to the severe traffic. What was once a strong source of joy has become a nuisance to the surrounding community. My family still fights the crowds to get our hands on pumpkin donuts and cherry cider (the correct answer to the debate), but our stamina is only enough for one scarce visit each season.