Yesterday, a friend wrote me to say he was moving back to the east coast after a few years in Los Angeles. I asked why, and he responded: “Loneliness? And I miss the seasons.” I can easily imagine feeling both emotions keenly if I moved somewhere far-away and warm. I know he meant them as separate items (loneliness for a happy clan of close friends who live back east and dreaming of the physical passing of seasons)—but to me, they’d be one and the same.
East coast seasons are so deeply familiar to me; my relationship to them as intimate as family. They’re both mine and not mine at all—any old person can walk down a street carpeted in cherry blossoms, warm soft spring air ruffling their hair, and can tell you of the lightness and brightness that starts to stir somewhere down in their wintered-over heart.
I’m not the only one to delight in the papery crunch of fallen autumn leaves under my feet, or have the instant-trigger experience of smelling a whiff of woodsmoke and having my head fill with images like a movie on fast forward playing in the darkened theater behind my eyelids: foliage in New Hampshire, flannel shirts, knobby crimson heirloom apples, apple cider, apple cider doughnuts, apple cider-laced apple pie.
Hundreds upon thousands of people might list the same moments that “winter” brings to mind: the way powdery snowflakes melt on your eyelashes, twinkly white lights strung up against a stand of evergreens, White Christmas on the radio in Bing Crosby’s velvety baritone, peppermint stick ice cream, the sting of snow inside your mittens on a ski slope, a bowl of clementines, the scent of pine sap, cinnamon rolls warm from the oven.
I don’t own any of it: Not the perpetual rhythm of seasons, nor the flood of nostalgia as each one edges in upon another. Seasons are a shared experience, just like how we all indulge in comfortingly trivial commentary about the changes in weather—cold already! Not even Thanksgiving! or can you believe this humidity?.
And yet—seasons are all tied up in my own life (chapters, moments, days, hours, celebrations lived inside, around, and intertwined with them).
For example: As August draws out its steamy hold on summer, refusing to let go as September nears, any one of you can sense the quivering tremor of change in the air, thinking about freshly sharpened pencils and clean, crisp notebook pages and pink erasers.
But my late August isn’t yours: mine is the sweltering, heavy humidity of Baltimore. It’s driving in our old blue Volvo station wagon to field hockey tryouts, swallowing down nerves as I pull on shin guards and cleats. It’s walking back to the car—sticky with sweat and shaky with exhaustion—and driving home in the syrupy early-evening light, past the neighborhoods and shops of Roland Park, past the baseball fields and suburban culs-de-sac, ten minutes fifteen minutes twenty minutes, until the scenes along the road open up and smooth out into the gently sloping hills—all emerald green and neat white fences—of steeplechase country. I pass fewer houses: more streams, more forest. The road curves sharply through a wooded area, the canopy overhead filtering the waning sun into spirals, dappling the ground.
Seasons lived stack upon one another, a pile of distinct moments I can shuffle through and examine. One of my Februarys is all four sisters sprawled out on the yellowed living room carpet in the old house, our hands sticky with glue, the floor barely visible beneath a riot of spilled red glitter and white doilies and half-snipped construction paper hearts: the detritus of homemade Valentines.
Another one of my Februarys is the sound of a bell clanging at a distance, echoing across the frozen ground in Wiscasset, Maine. It’s me at age 16, abandoning my bowl of granola and milk, racing out of the dining hall and down the icy, furrowed dirt road to the barn. Stepping inside to the warm, hay-scented air—loud, panicked bleating coming from the first stall. Standing on tiptoe with a handful of my classmates to watch the first lamb born that year.
And now I’m adding more to my file: I have mid-Mays and early Junes spent at the beach; a long string of August sunsets on the rocky shore overlooking the Long Island Sound; July days riding the ferry, watching the white triangles of sailboats dot the water off Shelter Island.
Friday summer pizza nights: Sometimes from the little restaurant down the block, that specializes in seasonal toppings like local corn and pickled peppers or thinly sliced potatoes with rosemary or fresh heirloom tomatoes and bacon. Sometimes at home, with an enriched dough and toppings from the farmstead: local peaches and salty goat’s cheese or sugar snap peas and prosciutto.
Note: This dough is a little unusual in that it calls for eggs. I often use a simpler dough—just flour, water, yeast, and salt—but I really like this one for its texture (crisp and snappy) and flavor (a bit richer than most). If you want, you can also just slice the peas thinly on the diagonal instead of shelling them.
Snap Pea and Prosciutto Pizza
Makes 1 pizza
For the dough
1 tablespoon instant or active dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
1 1/2 cups warm water
3 eggs
1 tablespoon salt
2 3/4 to 3 3/4 cups (330 to 450 grams) to all-purpose flour (or "00" if you want)
For the topping
8 ounces fresh mozzarella
3/4 cup fresh ricotta
1 cup fresh shelled snap peas
4 ounces prosciutto
1/4 cup chopped scallions, green parts only (optional)
In a small bowl, whisk the yeast and sugar into the warm water.
In a large bowl, combine the yeast mixture with the eggs, salt, and flour (start with the lesser amount and add more as needed), and knead for about 5 minutes until you have a soft dough. The dough will be a bit sticky but should be relatively smooth and elastic. If it's really wet and sticky, add a bit more flour.
Transfer the dough to a large greased bowl, cover with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel, and let rise for about 1 1/2 hours: it should almost double in volume. If you want to make the dough far ahead, let it rise for only 45 minutes and then refrigerate it for up to 36 hours. The cool temperature will slow the rise and also help develop the flavor which is a good bonus.
When you're ready to bake, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. If you've refrigerated the dough, let it come to room temperature before stretching it.
Grease two baking sheets generously with olive oil. Divide the dough in half, and working with one piece at a time, roll and stretch the dough out to fit the sheet.
Top the pizza with torn pieces of fresh mozzarella and spoonfuls of fresh ricotta (use half for each pizza) and spread/pat the cheeses around into an even layer. Sprinkle the peas, scallions (if using), and torn pieces of the prosciutto over the top. Grind some fresh pepper (optional) on top.
Bake the pizza for about 15 minutes, or until the cheese bubbles and the edges are golden brown.