Last night the waiter put the celery on with the cheese, and I knew that summer was indeed dead. Other signs of autumn there may be—the reddening leaf, the chill in the early morning-air, the misty evening—but none of these comes home to me so truly. There may be cool mornings in July; in a year of drought the leaves may change before their time; it is only with the first celery the summer is over.
There is a crispness about celery that is of the essence of October. It is as fresh and clean as a rainy day after a spell of heat. It crackles pleasantly in the mouth. Moreover, it is excellent, I am told for the complexion. One is always hearing of things which are good for the complexion, but there is no doubt that celery stands high on the list. After the burns and freckles of summer, one is need of something. How good that celery should be there at one's elbow.
A Word for Autumn by A.A. Milne
In theory, I'm a good cook. I have the recipes collected from Mom, sheafs of paper now bound in a frayed pink ribbon that's unraveling in a multitude of threads.