text + images by Elizabeth Griswold
Fall is in the air, sweeping old and unnecessary things out of our lives, with scalloped curlicue winds and bracing blasts of cold air. The light that lays on my windowsill this morning is heavy. It is the light of growing up, it is the light that I try to explain as “nostalgic,” because I cannot seem to find a bigger word that encompasses all that I really mean. It is layered, made up of many years of windowsills, old lights, of deepening shadows and earlier dark.
Last night, in the dregs of poverty, I received an insanely decadent gift of assorted cheeses from someone very dear to me. The nine types of cheese were wrapped in blue and silver tinfoil, circles and triangles, glowing dully in their box, throwing windowsill light rainbows around my kitchen. Read More