Somehow, enough time has crept up on me that I’ve been able to establish two fall traditions as a resident of Virginia. They include, for one, a pre-Halloween trip with Ted’s family to a haunted forest, one that’s about an hour outside of Richmond and squarely in the middle of nowhere. After sunset, we take back roads to a huge cornfield framed by dark forest and, probably, serial killers. We board a hayride bound for the middle of that cornfield, where we’re dropped off and left to fend for ourselves. Stumbling our way through a corn maze, we pass a roaring bonfire that marks the entrance to the haunted forest.

It’s a setup that poises you to react like a high-strung Thoroughbred before a big race, ready to shy away at the drop of a feather. So we trot and high-step our way through barely-lit abadoned houses, accompanied by soft but pulse-quickening horror-movie music, accosted and pursued by entirely too many deranged-looking men with chainsaws. Both years, Ted’s family has laughed at me for screaming so loudly. And that’s all I have to say about that.

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It seems only appropriate to end these tales of Blueberry Week in Maine. It’s full-on August now, and some of my best Augusts were spent there as a teenager, in a little house on Lake Sebago. And it’s no surprise that blueberries—like those other Maine delicacies, lobster and maple syrup—figure prominently into my favorite recollections of those trips. After all, we always stayed with dear family friends (Dave and Sue) in a television-free cabin, sans computers, in a place where cell phone service was spotty at best. It was the simple pleasures that became the fabric of our days.

Instead of our electronic devices, the greatest source of entertainment was each other. Sue loved reading in the plastic lawn chair propped up by the water, on the cabin’s tiny inlet that served as a beach. She also liked to take morning walks, and made us rooibos tea when the sun dipped low—a fixation borne from a trip to South Africa. Dave gathered us around the coffee table for card games, and he and my dad shared a fondness for almanac trivia sessions. (Seriously, I can’t tell you how many times I was quizzed about the five longest suspension bridges in the United States.) They were both amateur astronomers, too, and no trip was complete before we’d gathered once on the dock after dinner, starstruck under the brilliant rural sky, to piece together constellations.

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Late last week, I was at the end of my rope. I couldn’t imagine spending another minute inside, staring at a computer screen or filing documents. It was almost eighty degrees, with cherry blossoms adorning every other tree and the dogwoods in full bloom, and by Thursday there was nothing I needed more than to be driving home from work with my windows down, classic rock blasting and Ray-Bans secured atop the bridge of my nose. Since the office was deathly quiet, I split at noon, and asked myself exactly what I wanted to do with my freedom. The answer came to me swiftly and simply: Let’s bake!

I’m not known for my spontaneity — I’m a planner by nature. But on this particular afternoon, my sunny kitchen called to me, and I had no reason to refuse it. An apartment bathed in natural light is a rare and beautiful thing usually reserved for weekend afternoons; winter’s rationed light taught me to savor every bright moment I spent in my home, and I celebrated now by baking with nature’s sunniest fruit. I keep a stash of ultra-ripe bananas in my freezer (I’m a planner, remember?), ready to spring into action at any moment. On this day, I knew the best way to relax into the moment would be to stir together my favorite, tested-to-perfection banana bread. I’d end up with a hearty loaf for a week of breakfasts, all while staring contentedly out the window: the steps for this recipe are etched into my muscle memory.

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Weekend mornings are supposed to be a calm affair. There’s no throwing of alarm clocks against the wall, no bleary-eyed preparation of brown-bag lunches, no chaining yourself to a coffee thermos to power through the first hours of the morning. No, the morning doesn’t seem cruel when it finds you on Saturday or Sunday. The light is muted rather than harsh, and you’ve got time to wrap your hands around a warm mug while you read the paper (or simply let your mind wander).

I imagine we all seek that sort of feeling with our weekend breakfasts: we crave something good enough to linger over, but any supreme effort would feel out of place in our bubbles of stress-free existence. Enter yeast-raised waffles. With a batter meant to be left on the counter overnight, you can luxuriate in their maple-drenched goodness after only a whisk and a pour in the a.m.

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