I ONCE worked as a gardener in a walled garden, starting in autumn, a sudden immersion into a magical, woodsmoke-scented world. The trees that leaned over the wall turned amber and brown and the sun, when it burned through the morning mists, was slanting and golden. We lit smoky bonfires to tidy up the detritus of the ending of the growing year, wrapped apples in newspaper to put away and turned our attention to the pumpkins and winter squashes.
To delve among the remnants of the yellowing and fading foliage is to seek out treasure. We cut the fruits—technically, that’s what they are—from their vines and laid them out in the sun to cure their skins so that they would last through winter. There are few
