seasonal living – Budget Bliss: Bucket List

The Autumn We Almost Lost

Published on September 20, 2026September 20, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

There are some things that feel so thoroughly associated with autumn that we hardly think of them as special anymore.

Pumpkin patches. Hayrides. Apple picking. The crispness in the air. Rows of trees heavy with fruit. We see these things every year, or at least we expect to.

After an unusually warm growing season followed by a late frost in the spring, much of the apple harvest in our region was lost. Something I had always thought of as an almost ubiquitous autumn activity suddenly became a rather rare treat. There were fewer apples to pick, and suddenly the ones hanging from the trees felt a little more precious.

This year, however, apple picking was a rather different affair.

In fact, there was not a single apple orchard in the whole county offering apple picking. In order to find one, we had to look further afield, across the river to Flinchbaugh’s Orchard and Farm Market, to make the most of what remained. I had checked their Facebook page and discovered that this past weekend was possibly the only weekend they would be offering apple picking. A rare treat indeed.

So, on a Saturday morning, my sister and I set out on a small journey to the farm. It’s a quaint market full of fresh local produce on the inside and a sprawling flower market outside. At this time of year, it was overflowing with pumpkins. Food trucks were parked outside, and the smell of fresh apple cider donuts wafted through the air.

After purchasing our tickets and bag for apples, we climbed aboard a wagon for a tour of the farm, riding past fields of sunflowers, wildflowers, pumpkins and, eventually, the apple orchards. The orderly rows of trees stretched out before us, their branches holding clusters of apples together in little golden bunches.

As we rode towards the orchard, we passed the machinery being used to gather the commercial harvest. Two men working nearby paused to politely tip their hats as we passed. There was something wonderfully old-fashioned about the gesture, even as enormous modern equipment rumbled through the rows. Bees hummed lazily between the trees, gathering their own harvest as we gathered ours.

These were Golden Delicious, but they were unlike the Golden Delicious I usually pick up at the supermarket. These apples were honey-sweet and bursting with flavour. Crisp, fresh and still warm with the lingering memory of the sun, they tasted like the season itself.

Perhaps knowing how easily the harvest could have been lost made them taste even better.

And then there was the cat.

Oh, the cat.

An orange cat had apparently appointed himself official ambassador of the apple orchard. He was wonderfully friendly, purring loudly as he made his rounds among the visitors. Clearly accustomed to attention, he seemed determined to ensure that no one left the orchard without first receiving an appropriate amount of feline hospitality.

Naturally, we obliged.

After gathering our apples, we wandered into the pumpkin patch.

If the apple orchard was orderly, the pumpkin patch was anything but. The neat rows of trees gave way to a glorious mess of pumpkins, flowers and grasses. Round orange pumpkins appeared wherever you looked, tucked among the vegetation as though they had simply sprung from the earth wherever they pleased. Grasshoppers chirped and sprang out of our way as we tromped through the patch in search of the perfect pumpkin.

It felt less like walking through a cultivated field and more like wandering into autumn itself.

Perhaps that is what I enjoyed most about the day. None of it was particularly extraordinary. We picked apples. We hunted for pumpkins. We rode on a wagon. We took pictures among the wildflowers. We breathed in the crisp autumn air.

And yet this year, the ordinary didn’t feel quite so ordinary.

The apples reminded me that abundance is not guaranteed. A warm winter, a badly timed frost, too much rain or too little can change what a farm is able to produce. Something that seems inevitable when you see it stacked by the dozens in a supermarket can become surprisingly precious when you watch an entire harvest disappear.

Maybe that is one of the pleasures of paying attention. We think we know what a season will bring because we have experienced it before. But every year is slightly different. Some things flourish. Some disappear. Some return unexpectedly. And sometimes the thing you assumed would always be there becomes the thing you are most grateful to have.

This year, I got to pick my own apples.

They were delicious.

There was a pumpkin patch full of flowers and grasshoppers, a wagon ride through the farm, wildflowers waiting to be photographed, bees humming through the orchard and a very affectionate orange cat making his rounds.

It was an ordinary autumn afternoon.

But this year, it was extraordinary.

Practical Magic: Capturing a Jar of Summer

Published on September 7, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It’s Labor Day weekend. The children have returned to school. The leaves have just begun their transition from green to yellow, red, and orange. There’s just the slightest nip in the air. Though not officially here by the calendar, autumn is announcing her impending arrival, armed with pumpkin spice everything and spooky décor.

It’s enough to make anyone feel a bit witchy. And what better way to celebrate than by creating some magic in the kitchen?

Upon my stove boils a curious concoction of preserved summer. A spell sealed away until the time is right, most likely in the midst of winter’s blast, its bright heat pushing back against a blizzard’s howl. The kitchen fills with the sweet smell of fruit and sugar as the mixture bubbles away, slowly transforming from something ordinary into something that, with a little patience and the right ingredients, will become something entirely different.

Yes, armed with a dark brew, this concoction will my guests renew!

I speak, of course, of making jellies, jams, and shrubs, of drying, pickling, canning, and all the other delightful ways humans have devised to capture the bounty of one season and carry it into another.

You will be forgiven, dear reader, if you are not familiar with all the forms of preservation previously listed. I shall assume that you are particularly unfamiliar with “shrubs.” Most people are, and no, it isn’t a bush one plants in one’s garden.

A shrub is a sweet and tart beverage made from a concentrated syrup of fresh fruit, sugar, and vinegar. It is one of the earliest forms of food preservation, and I simply adore adding it to iced tea or using it in homemade cocktails. There is something wonderfully satisfying about taking fruit that is abundant for a brief moment in summer and turning it into something you can enjoy months later.

And, like any good witch, I must be careful with my spells. There is a recipe to follow. Measurements matter. Temperatures matter. Sterilization matters. The jars must be prepared properly, the seals must be checked, and everything must be handled with care. There is a certain amount of magic involved in watching fruit, sugar, heat, and time transform into something completely different, but this is not the sort of magic where one can simply wave a wand and hope for the best. An improperly prepared spell may have unintended consequences.

In this case, those consequences are less likely to involve turning someone into a frog and considerably more likely to involve food poisoning. So I follow the recipe. Carefully.

I measure the sugar. I measure the pectin. I watch the temperature. I stir and wait and watch the bubbles rise and burst. There is a strange satisfaction in following a process developed and refined by generations of people who figured out how to make the harvest last just a little longer. And when the spell is complete, I ladle the glowing mixture into jars and seal them away.

Can I go to the store and buy jam? Absolutely. I can buy pickles (not that I would I happen to hate pickles but you can!). I can buy dried fruit. I can buy salsa and tea and any number of other things I might otherwise make myself.

But there is something to be said for capturing the flavors of locally grown produce and preserving them with your own hands. There is satisfaction in carefully measuring out the ingredients, following the recipe, watching the transformation happen, and eventually opening a jar months later to discover that you have somehow managed to preserve a little piece of summer.

I have canned salsas and spreads. I have pickled lemons in salt water. I’ve dried various vegetables to use in soups later. I’ve even made my own fruit tea from scraps of summer fruit, using things like strawberry tops and apple peels. That last one is particularly delightful on a snowy afternoon. Take the scraps that might otherwise end up in the compost and turn them into a fragrant cup of tea. Add a little honey, curl up somewhere warm, and suddenly January seems considerably less offensive.

And that, dear reader, is where I think food preservation becomes more than simply a frugal hobby. It is a skill.

There is a tendency to think of bucket-list adventures as things that require plane tickets, reservations, expensive equipment, or some dramatic story to tell afterward. We put things like skydiving, visiting exotic countries, climbing mountains, or swimming with sharks on our lists.

And those things can certainly be wonderful. But learning how to do something is an adventure too. Learning to preserve food means acquiring a skill that doesn’t disappear when the experience ends. I can make another batch of jam next summer. I can try a different fruit. I can experiment with a new shrub. I can dry vegetables for another winter’s soup.

The experience becomes something I can return to. That is one of my favourite things about learning new skills. You don’t simply check the box and move on. You take the knowledge with you. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to learn how to bake bread. Maybe you’ve wondered about woodworking, gardening, knitting, pottery, fermenting, playing an instrument, making soap, painting, or any of the countless skills humans have developed over thousands of years.

You don’t have to become an expert. You don’t even have to love it. Try it. Learn something. And if you discover that you enjoy it, you’ve gained something you can carry with you for the rest of your life.

I certainly haven’t become some grand master of food preservation. I don’t have a cellar filled with hundreds of perfectly labelled jars. My kitchen isn’t a scene from a nineteenth-century homestead where I’ve somehow become the keeper of ancient culinary wisdom. I’m simply someone who enjoys making things.

And I particularly enjoy making things that allow me to cheat time. That may be the real magic of preservation. Summer is fleeting. The strawberries disappear. The peaches soften. The tomatoes eventually stop producing. The herbs die back. The garden goes quiet. But I can capture some of it. I can put summer into a jar. Then I can tuck that jar away and wait. Months later, when the trees are bare and the wind is howling against the windows, I can pull it from the pantry. I can spread it across warm toast. I can stir preserved fruit into something I’m baking. I can pour a little shrub into a glass of iced tea and remember the heat of July.

And I don’t have to keep all the magic to myself. I spread it around, too. Slightly intended pun. Jams, jellies and other homemade treats make wonderful holiday gifts. There is something special about receiving something someone made themselves. It says, I thought of you when I made this; I took the time to make something; I put this away months ago and remembered you when it was time to bring it out. And perhaps most importantly, it says, I hope this makes your day a little brighter. That feels like a much more meaningful gift than something grabbed from a shelf five minutes before Christmas.

So as autumn settles in and the farmers’ markets begin their final abundance of the season, perhaps consider adding a little practical magic to your own bucket list. You don’t need a cauldron. You don’t need a pointy hat. Although, I always love a good hat, bonus points if it’s festive. A hairnet will probably suffice. Head to your local farmers’ market. Find something delicious. Learn how to preserve it. Follow the recipe carefully. Respect the science. Don’t accidentally poison your loved ones. Then seal away a little bit of summer.

Because when winter finally arrives, when the snow is falling and the cold seems determined to seep into your bones, you can reach into your pantry and open a jar. And there it is. Summer. Waiting for you. A little magic you made yourself.

How to Find Wonder Again: Practicing Everyday Awe in Darker Months

Published on December 24, 2025December 24, 2025 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

December is always the darkest month. The Winter Solstice arrives with the longest night of the year, quietly marking the slow ascent back toward the light of spring. It is both an ending and a beginning. A hinge in the calendar. A pause between what has been and what might be.

It is also a time of renewal. We reflect on the year behind us, tallying lessons learned and losses survived, and we look ahead with cautious hope. Yet for all that symbolism, December still represents another three to four months before winter fully loosens its grip. The cold does not politely retreat once the holidays end. The bitter reach of Arctic winds lingers, stretching farther south than usual this year, brushing even warmer regions with frost and ice.

With the sun reduced to a pale visitor and the cold driving us indoors, many people feel the familiar post-holiday letdown. The lights come down. The tinsel disappears. The steady drumbeat of gatherings and celebrations fades into silence. Roads turn ugly with soot and slush. Gardens lie flattened and forgotten. Trees stand stripped bare, their branches like exposed bones against the sky. Everything feels gray, muted, suspended.

Time stretches out ahead of us, long and uncertain, offering only the occasional tease of warmth on a rare day that creeps near fifty degrees. It can feel like winter has sucked the life out of the world. And sometimes, out of us too.

All this to say, winter can really drain a person.

And yet, over the years, I have learned something important. Winter is not devoid of wonder. We are simply out of practice at seeing it.

Why Wonder Feels Harder in Winter

Wonder thrives on contrast, novelty, and movement. Spring explodes with color. Summer buzzes with life. Autumn dazzles us with fire and gold. Winter, by comparison, feels like subtraction. Color drains away. Sound is muffled. Life retreats underground or inward. Our modern world does not help. We are conditioned to associate wonder with spectacle, with big moments and bright displays especially at Christmas time. When those disappear, we assume wonder has gone with them.

But winter does not offer pageantry in the same way. It offers something quieter. Subtler. More restrained. Like a dancer who understands that all she needs is a stage and her movements to create beauty, rather than an entire set and multiple costume changes.

As we are often exhausted by the time winter truly sets in, we are not exactly primed to go looking for subtlety. December often follows a marathon of busyness. Social obligations. Emotional labor. Financial strain. The pressure to show up smiling and generous even when you are running on fumes. By the time January arrives, many of us are not ready to be curious. We are ready to be done.

So when the world slows down, we interpret it as emptiness instead of invitation to rest, reflect and truly see what is all around us.

The Magic Hidden in Plain Sight

Yes, driving in snow can be maddening. The clenched jaw. The white knuckles on the steering wheel. The muttered curses when traffic crawls and visibility drops. And yet, there are moments when the frustration cracks open into something else. Sunlight hits freshly fallen snow and suddenly everything sparkles. The world looks newly made. Ordinary streets turn luminous. Even the most familiar landscape feels briefly enchanted.

A winter forest carries its own kind of beauty. Bare trees reveal shapes and patterns hidden all summer long. Branches lace together like sketches against the sky. Fog drapes itself through trunks and hollows, softening edges and swallowing sound. There is a stillness there that feels almost sacred. There is nothing quite like a walk in the forest alone in the winter. For that brief time it feels as if you have been swallowed up into another world long forgotten.

Winter wonder often arrives unannounced and unadorned. It does not shout for attention. It waits for you to notice.

Learning to Look Differently

Finding wonder in darker months requires a shift in how we look at the world. Not faster. Slower. Not broader. Narrower. It asks us to trade spectacle for attention.

This is not a season that rewards multitasking. It rewards presence, something many of us struggle with these days. Winter is asking us to be grounded, to notice the smaller things. It’s the warm cup of tea in your hands. Watching the steam curling upwards as you gaze out at footprints in freshly fallen snow an echo of life passing through. These are not dramatic moments. They are small, fleeting, and easily overlooked.

Winter teaches us that awe does not always arrive dressed in grandeur. Sometimes it arrives disguised as ordinary.

Practicing Everyday Awe

Awe is often framed as something rare. Something reserved for mountaintops and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. But everyday awe is built through habit, not circumstance.

Start small. Choose one moment each day to truly notice. The quality of the light. The texture of cold air in your lungs. The sound of wind moving through bare branches. Write it down if you can. Not to be poetic. Just to be honest.

Create rituals that slow you down. An evening walk at dusk. A morning routine that does not involve a screen. Lighting a candle not for ambiance but for intention. These small acts train your attention. They remind your nervous system that the world is still capable of holding beauty, even now.

Stillness as a Teacher

After a month of constant motion, winter almost demands that we become still. Nature itself seems to insist on it. Fields lie fallow. Animals hibernate. Growth pauses beneath frozen ground. Nothing is rushed, but rather everything seems to be waiting.

We resist this at first. Stillness can feel uncomfortable. Without constant distraction, we are left alone with our thoughts, a dangerous proposition for many. We are faced with questions we have postponed and emotions we have not fully processed. But stillness is not emptiness.

Winter invites us to stop long enough to hear what has been whispering beneath the noise all year. It asks us to listen not to the loud and boisterous, but to the quiet and the waiting. To the parts of ourselves that are not yet ready to bloom but are still very much alive. Perhaps, they are parts that we have not heard in years. We may find that whatever those parts have to offer are far better ideas to pursue than whatever resolution we came up with when we were caught up in the dazzle of celebrations.

Carrying Wonder Forward

Winter wonder is fragile. It thrives in moments of pause and disappears when rushed. But once you learn how to find it here, you can find it anywhere.

The practice of noticing does not end when spring returns. It deepens. The quiet skills winter teaches us carry forward into brighter seasons. Attention. Patience. Reverence for small things.

Winter is not an obstacle to wonder. It is a different teacher of it.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift of the darker months. They remind us that beauty does not only exist in bloom and abundance. Sometimes it exists in rest. In waiting. In the soft whispers of what has not yet awakened.

If you listen closely enough, winter is not empty at all. It is full of quiet promises.