"The roadside stands were piled with golden pumpkins and russet squashes and baskets of red apples so crisp and sweet that they seemed to explode with juice when I bit into them. I bought apples and a gallon jug of fresh-pressed cider...the climate changed quickly to cold and the trees burst into color, the reds and yellows you can't believe. It isn't only a color but a glowing, as though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it slowly. There's a quality of fire in the colors." John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley
Couldn't resist reposting it here.
I've also spent the evening on a recipe-scrounging binge. I suppose it'd be an awful waste of immortality, were I ever granted such a gift, to spend it experimenting with different recipes, eh?