The taste of autumn

A writing challenge with Converge

The Taste of Autumn.

But first..I want to share a few words about taste.

This title reminds of the ‘70s advert Vesta Curries – “The Taste of the Orient” and 1970s cinema adverts about Indian Cuisine. Funny isn’t it, what pops into your head by reading just 4 little words.

There are so many uses for the word ‘taste’.

You can have good taste in something like Hobbs clothes.
Or men!
Fine wines or good beers.
Chocolates.

Poor behaviour can leave ‘a bad taste in your mouth’.
Cause upset.
Lead to families falling out.
Estranged for years.

You can have an experience – ‘the team had not yet tasted victory.’
That was us in 1973 at middle school. The netball team.
We lost all our games that year. Every single one. Thrashed!
The following year we came back fighting and won them all, well… all but two.
Beaten by our nemesis C…. F….. P… Both times. Home and away. We came second.

You can take a sip or a tiny morsel,
Determine whether you like it or not.
Sprouts! Urgh! Once tasted and disliked, never forgotten. Bit like marmite.
Hide it. Mix it with something else. Quick. Or give it to panda. He’ll eat it.
Just as long as mum doesn’t see.

This eclectic arena of possibilities.
This panoply.
This panoramic view of taste.
Makes writing so much easier for the fragmentary sort of writer.
Like me.
Is there such a name? No matter. Either way.

I’m happy to have become a new word.
If indeed, I have.
I can write what I want to write.
Be who I want to be.
Through my writing, I can dip my toe in the river of opportunity.
Taste success. Hah!

But – back to The Taste of Autumn

What reminds me of autumn?
Autumn was the time we played netball.
On concrete!
I was always falling.
Getting into scrapes.
Bloody, grazed knees. Evident, even on the team photograph.

Falling leaves.
Golden hues of russet browns and reds.
Kicking our way through the mounting piles.
Becoming splodge when it rained. Not us; the leaves.

Bonfire night.
Hot jacket potatoes smothered in butter.
Porkpies and sausage rolls.
The smell of a burning fire. Crackling away.
Being screamed at by mum to get away from the fire.
Told to show an example.

Those good old days.
When everything appeared so much simpler.
So much easier.
But probably wasn’t!