The beauty of dead hydrangeas is a memento of the broken promise of an endless summer.
Every year, for even a fleeting moment, I buy into the promise of an endless summer. It’s hard not to in the middle of a Montréal heat wave in the middle of July. This year has been especially deceiving because even well into October we’ve had some unseasonably warm days and a few more coming up according to the latest weather forecast. But the nights are getting cooler and the evenings darker and certainly autumn is here, settled in with deep roots. My hydrangeas can attest to that. They have dried up; beautifully as they always do, as beautiful as they were when they bloomed, only now in hues of brown and red. They are blessed, these gems, to have this endless beauty long after summer has passed, and promises of an endless summer are broken on a cool autumn evening. And celebrations of new sorts begin.
Autumn, here, is celebrated with simple delights such as apple pie.
Over a decade ago, I lost my first pregnancy, my first baby, and with it, everything else it seemed. Death is so final, and I guess that is what makes it so hard. However, I think any other sort, I could have learned to accept. But to have to mourn for a child was and still is beyond my capability to handle, to reason, to understand. I cried, I yelled, I died. And I still cry. But such is life, not every flower blooms, not every blossom becomes a fruit and not every child is born. There are no reasons, no explanations. It just is. 
I love summer mornings when I can wake up with the sunrise and the world (it seems), as well as my loves, are still asleep and quiet. And I have time to sort out my thoughts. I do this best in my kitchen while measuring and weighing, mixing ingredients and watching something great come together.
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