There are these apples I've been finding at the greenmarket on Sundays, called Golden Crisp or something (not Golden Delicious, and not Honeycrisp; I'm not a moron). They're small and green, or a lovely very pale gold-ish green, not as tart or aggressive as a Granny Smith but also not all that close to sweet (sweet apples being the supreme letdown of apples). They taste very ur-apple—I mean apple-y in their essence, apple to nth degree, the apple of The Fall—but perhaps I've just forgotten what apples actually taste like. These are well worth the woe of shopping a greenmarket on a Sunday alongside a thousand slow-moving, granola-fed Upper West Siders, so that alone should tell you something.
Also, the air has been doing that end-of-summer thing lately, when the morning greens are particularly green and the blues are deeply blue and a bit steely and sharp, and although it's been miserably hot and humid you can tell autumn is underneath there somewhere, biding its time and stretching itself out. I take the bus to work every morning and the light is especially lovely around the Time Warner Center and Trump International Hotel at Columbus Circle, which is difficult to feel good about on an intellectual or even basic human level but nevertheless. The beauty of autumn is in the contrasts, so thanks for the hard mirrored surfaces, corporate titans. Thank you for the shadows.
IMPORTANT UPDATE: it's ginger gold