There are a million things to love about Fall. I won't articulate them all, because, quite frankly, that would be snuggle poo.*
But there's one tradition I don't look forward to.
The first piping hot bowl of Autumn soup.
Yes, a steaming bowl of soup warms the innards, soothes the soul, and relaxes a tensed body from the day's stresses. It's medicinal. It's comforting. It's wonderful.
But every year sometime between mid-April when I put away the soup bowls, and mid-October when I dig them back up, I forget the fine art of soup eating. Or, more properly, the skill of soup blowing.
And every year I slurp the first spoonful of liquid lava without properly puffing and I get the ceremonial tongue, lip, and palate burn.
Now that I'm officially sportin' the swollen soup lip, I can say with confidence: Fall is here.
*[noun:ˈsnʌɡəl •puː / snuhg-uhl • poo: a pejorative term which refers to events, items, or situations that have the quality of cliched comfort. E.g. hot apple cider with cinnamon sticks, warm blankets by the fire with hot tea and a book, eating a fresh apple in a sunlit window, sipping hot cocoa while listening to classical music, cuddling with a teddy bear, etc.]