The Season I Wish I Could Hold Onto
An autumn note from a pastry chef’s kitchen
Autumn has always been my favourite season.
More than summer, more than spring, even more than the quiet of winter.
Perhaps because autumn makes me want to hold onto beauty a little longer.
I look at the trees and wish they could stay exactly as they are for just a few more days—the gold, the copper, the deep reds, the soft light falling across the fields.
But the leaves keep falling.
The colours keep changing.
And there is something bittersweet about watching something so beautiful slowly disappear.
Maybe that is what I love most about autumn. It reminds me to look closely, because nothing stays exactly as it is.
By October, my kitchen changes too. Apples soften in butter, cinnamon warms the air, hazelnuts toast in the oven, and caramel sits somewhere between golden and bitter. I find myself reaching for pears, vanilla, dark chocolate and spices—flavours that feel like autumn before they are even tasted.
As a pastry chef, I have always been drawn to transformation. A few degrees can change a dough. A few seconds can take caramel from golden to bitter. Cream becomes something entirely different with a little patience.
The most beautiful moments are often brief.
Perhaps that is why autumn makes me think about love.
We sometimes want to keep people, moments and feelings exactly as they are—to stop time when something feels beautiful. But nothing stays untouched.
People change.
Seasons change.
And we change with them.
Maybe letting go isn’t the opposite of love. Maybe sometimes it is simply loving something enough to appreciate it while it is still here.
I feel that most when I am alone in the kitchen.
Before the day begins, there is only the quiet hum of the ovens, the smell of butter and the sound of my hands working. Outside, the weather may be changing. Inside, something is slowly becoming.
Those quiet moments are where I find my creativity.
A walk through autumn fields can become an idea for a dessert. The colour of a leaf can inspire a glaze. The smell of rain can bring back a memory.
And sometimes I think that is what solitude gives us—the space to notice what we might otherwise miss.
So I bake.
An apple tart comes from the oven, golden at the edges and fragrant with cinnamon. For a moment, it is perfect.
Then it is cut.
Shared.
Gone.
But something remains—the taste, the warmth, the memory.
Perhaps that is what I am really trying to hold onto when I look at autumn.
Not the leaves themselves.
Not the colours.
Not even the season.
Just the feeling of being there while something beautiful is happening.
Tomorrow there may be fewer leaves on the trees. The colours may have changed again. The tart may be gone.
And perhaps that is why I want to notice today a little more carefully.
The leaves will keep falling.
The seasons will keep changing.
And I will keep finding beauty in what cannot stay.
