First Frost

A half-day before the dawn that will bring fall’s first early-morning calls of the wild windshield scraper, Martha phones from across the street, and she has picked all her Swiss chard, and do we want any?, and we do, and I ask if I should come over and get it, and she says it’s cradled like a baby in her arms and she will come to us, and she does, and she is sporting a stunning new haircut that pushes her prettiness to even greater heights, which hardly seems possible, but there it is, and she transfers that colorful baby into Tim’s arms, during which a few stalks fall to the floor, but they are quickly rescued, and the next afternoon, after the first-frost scraping, after the thrill of the first real chill, after the day’s warming has crested and is beginning its retreat, I clean the chard and chop the white and fuchsia and gold stems and sauté them in olive oil and add the leaves bit by bit and watch them wilt and shrink and darken, and then I mix in Portabellas and Italian sausage, and at dinner we feast on autumn comfort food of the very best kind.