Here I sit on the front porch in my Adirondack Chair, the pockets of my cardigan filled to brim with my wife’s famous apple cider doughnuts. When she returns home and discovers that I’ve eaten the entire batch, I’ll be in trouble. But for now, I wait for the first chill of autumn. For the leaves to change the colors of Reese’s Pieces. And for the days to grow short like so many fun-sized candy bars.
For most, this time of year is a descent into darkness. But for me, autumn is the beginning of happiest time of year:
The season of snacking.
I spent my formative years on my family’s homestead in the Alaskan Tundra. If we didn’t put on fifty pounds by mid-October, we surely wouldn’t make it through the harsh winter.
Snacking became a means of survival.
Suddenly, the only thing standing between me and certain death was a stack of Little Debbie’s Christmas Tree Cakes and a cupboard full of White Fudge Oreos. My mid-morning snack was a side of beef and a milkshake the size of a trashcan. The barn was stuffed to the gills with bags of Holiday Hershey’s Kisses. My mother would send me in and tell me not to come out until I’d made a dent.
And I loved every second of it.
So now, as I put the finishing touches on this, the third issue of
The winters here aren’t as cold as the tundra, but you can never be too careful.
Sinclair P. Munch, Jr., Editor in Chief