I love golden autumn light. I can’t help but look up into the sky to see the light shine through the trees and watch the migrating birds overhead. This golden glow also finds its way on to our plates and bowls – I can never have enough squash and sweet potato this time of year. For me the golden light is also a cue to transition to the nesting time of year.
And that brings us to butter, a beacon of all that is golden and comforting.
Last month when the skies were particularly golden, I recalled a second grade field trip to Topping Tavern Museum in Shaftsbury, Vermont. This museum featured the usual array of colonial tools and farm equipment, but what I remember most was all of us piling into the kitchen where we boisterously took turns churning cream into butter. We then used some of the butter to make huge, flaky biscuits. We topped the warm biscuits with generous slabs of our homemade butter. I have never eaten butter that good. I have enjoyed and baked many biscuits with butter since, but nothing compares to this early experience. That is the thing with moments like these; the connection to a flavor becomes forever connected to a place, it becomes a maxima point, and as much as you try to recreate it the memory is often better.