October is party month at the Carter house. Reasons being:

1. It’s October! I’m wearing sweaters, and drinking hot tea! I spend Sunday afternoons curled up under a quilt, reading a book! Our mud room smells like apples!
2. It’s birthday-central: three of the five of us have birthdays this month. The biggest party will be for our soon-to-be six-year old. Daddy doesn’t really get a party, ever, and the soon-to-be one-year old doesn’t yet care (don’t call child services just yet… she will get the requisite cupcake to delve into face-first for a memory-making photo op).
3. This coming Saturday, we’re having the first annual (dare I attempt to begin a tradition?) Autumnal Tasting Feast, at the home of the Wine Benefactor. More details to come.
4. My new site is up! Stroll on over to the New and Improved, Value-Added, As-Seen-On-TV, Limited Edition home of Thought for Food!

That’s what I paid this morning, at the Farmer’s Market, for all of this:

Does that seem crazy, to anyone else but me? The apples are the only thing that weren’t either certified organic or pesticide-free (after much searching, I still haven’t found an apple farmer who doesn’t have to spray at least once). Is this all a hoax? I keep thinking I’m going to wake up one morning to headlines telling me of the Great Farce discovered at the Broad Ripple Farmer’s Market. How do they sell this stuff so cheap?

The priciest item was the half-peck of apples, straight from the orchard outside Indianapolis. Those totaled $7 (one bag is for eating — the Golden Delicious and Galas, and one is for applesauce — the Cortlands). The acorn squash was $1, purchased from the same farmer who sells me $1 yukon gold potatoes (I am feeling safer with each passing Saturday that the price remains the same — I even refrained from running away after my purchase this morning).

Seriously. Where am I?

And you must understand that I’m not complaining — I’m just nervous. Waiting for this mirage to disappear before my hungry yet unwaveringly frugal eyes.

Is this heaven? No, it’s Indiana.

We were invited to a “pitch-in” this weekend. I get the electronic invitation, and am rushing through emails, so don’t fully open it up. I see a big ice cream illustration, though, so I’m subconsciously thinking, sure: a party where we will all help work on something, and then get some ice cream. We could do that. We can pitch-in our labors.

But later, when it came time to rsvp, I discovered the truth: “pitch-in” is Midwestern-ese for “pot-luck.”

Now that is labor I can handle.