Fall is officially here in the Willamette Valley. The air is cool, but not too cold. The trees have burst into their brilliant colors, swaddling the valley in a multicolored quilt, stitched through with green mounds of blackberry briers. We've entered into our late autumn/early winter weather pattern a bit early this year: Cloudy, rainy off/on, 65 degrees daytime, 45 at night. Wood smoke trails from chimneys and brush piles, making asthmatics cringe -- but I digress.

At this time of year the wools feel softer to the hand, their shades more pleasing to the eye. The oak leaf tans and taupes, maple golds and crimsons, and the sweet gum burnished violets and reds, all beckon to be cast onto my needles. As much as I love their singular beauty, sometimes the crazy patchwork garment of the pin oak catches my fancy and I strand two or three colors together.

But all this planning can become tiring. Then all I want to do is curl up in my chair with a steaming cup of Colombian Supremo, ala splash of canned milk, a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies, my latest sock autopiloting on the needles, and gaze out the window at the autumn leaves.