Jo’s Fanfic

Time for my confession:  at the beginning of September, I started WeightWatchers.  My weight was at my all-time high, but I’d gotten used to it.  I just didn’t look at pictures of myself, and I tried to avoid those glimpses you get in the reflection of a plate-glass window.  I probably wouldn’t have thought much about it if I hadn’t received a call from my mother, announcing that my cousin has been diagnosed with diabetes due to obesity and high blood pressure.  It was the second time in a month that I’d been told of someone who was diagnosed as diabetic or borderline due to weight problems, and the thought finally came to me:  how much longer could I pretend that these problems only happened to other people?  And how foolish would I have to be to contract—or even die of—an entirely preventable disease?

So, I decided to do something, and that something was WeightWatchers.  Meetings, points, flex, core–you name it.  The first Thursday in September, there I was, weighing in and collecting all sorts of information to learn my new way of eating.

What was off was my planning.  You see, one of the disadvantages of starting WeightWatchers in September was that I missed most of the fresh vegetable season here in southern New England.  For a couple weeks, I could stop at the local farm stand and pick up wonderful, locally grown produce to make into fabulous salads and soups.  Then, the weather began to cool, and the crops began to change.  Now, the farmers’ markets are full of mums in vibrant, rich colors, winter squashes in a myriad of sizes and shapes, and baskets of apples and pears for those who haven’t the inclination to go out and pick their own. 

Just when I was about to resign myself to supermarket produce that left its flavor thousands of miles away, I discovered Delicata squash.  The oblong squash is yellow with green stripes.  Preparing it couldn’t be easier—prick it with a paring knife in several spots, put it on a plate and microwave it on high for seven to ten minutes.  Slit it open, spoon out the seeds and fibers, and scoop out the flesh.  It’s so sweet that you barely need to do anything to it—a bit of butter, maybe, but that’s it.  I wouldn’t have thought it last summer when I was surrounded by bunches of fresh basil and bins of local tomatoes, but there it was—sweet and fresh and wholly unexpected.

Mind you, autumn is the reason we all live in New England.  We tolerate the hot, humid summers and frigid, damp winters for the crisp, cool air and dazzling colors.  October makes up for all the rest.  A drive down a local road is a journey through a Monet landscape.  Almost every weekend, there are harvest festivals, complete with booths and rides and fried dough.  The leaves rustle and crackle underfoot as you walk down the road.  The sky is a clear, deep blue, and the bright red of the Japanese maple stands out against it.

So, the bottom line is that change happens.  We move from one season to another, from one stage to another.  We can either stand with our backs to the new, looking back and longing for what is gone, or we can look forward to see what new offerings lie ahead.  Some losses are permanent; others are only temporary, and they’ll cycle around again and again, familiar and yet different each time.  Some of the changes are marvelous, some are neutral, and some are just plain wretched.  The one thing they all share is that they are inevitable.  Our lives don’t stay the same.  For better or worse, the seasons change, bringing their own unique moments. 

And sometimes, the best surprises can be the little ones that we never saw coming.