Short days, snow flurries, and barren trees call for soup and sweaters. At the local farm stand, cauliflowers, carrots, and tomatoes burst with color. I wonder if the cold snap deepens the purple of eggplants and brightens the squash. Between the chill and the hues, soup becomes my go-to dinner. Thick, hearty bowls paired with a salad or sliced tomatoes with cheese—maybe a few olives—make a full meal. Leftovers mean lunch is taken care of, and I can bring my mom a serving or two.

When I’m prepared and organized, I employ the crock pot (I’ve never had the time or desire to figure out the Instapot) to simmer all day, filling the house with warm, inviting aromas—without burning a thing. There’s nothing better than coming home to dinner nearly done.

I rarely follow recipes to the letter. I open the fridge and concoct something from what’s available.  Matt and I, now in our late 60s and dining alone most nights, have seen our tastes and dietary needs evolve. I swap sweet potatoes for regular ones to lower the glycemic load and use my immersion blender (best kitchen gadget ever!) to cream soups without cream. Boxed broth saves time, cleanup, and freezer space. Bread dipping is minimal, but life’s too short to skip butter when it’s called for.

My favorite crock pot soups include potato-bean-leek, minestrone, chicken escarole, and Manhattan clam chowder. For roasted tomato and Hungarian mushroom soups, I turn to the cast-iron pot on the stovetop. French onion soup is a quicky when I find too many onions hiding in the fridge. 

As the season shifts, so does my closet. Shorts and crop pants get tucked away, and long pants take their place. However, over the years, sweaters thinned in bulk and number.  Chemotherapy ushered in early menopause and a volley of hot flashes and sensitive skin. Even now, eighteen years later, cozy knits and high-necked sweaters trigger a full-body flash.

I’ve done all I’m willing to do to manage it. Hormone therapy isn’t an option, acupuncture didn’t work for me, and I’m not giving up my glass of wine at dinner now and then. Weight loss and exercise help—it’s just a lot of work.

So my sweater wardrobe evolved. Sweater weather now means layering a tank top, a long-sleeve button-down, and a cardigan. I strip off layers and put them back on all day. The challenge is remembering where I left the toppers when the flash fades and the chill returns.

Since retirement, my closet reflects the shift. I’m no fashionista—I don’t sweat the sweater stuff. I’d rather sip soup. 

FYI: I am a Long Islander and although a Bronx dialect is a bit stronger, I say “Sweata Weatha”.

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