Layering is the technique that autumn requires and that most people do imprecisely. The principle is simple: each layer should do a specific job and be visible in a way that contributes to the composition.

What actually happens when you begin going to bed earlier in autumn — meaningfully earlier, nine or nine-thirty rather than eleven — is not what most people expect.

Branches cut from trees in turning color, placed in tall vessels with water, last for a week and are more beautiful than any bought arrangement.

There is a practice in October: the practice of deliberate incompletion. Of leaving things standing that could be cut down.

The Old Fashioned is the most honest cocktail there is — spirit, sweetener, bitters, nothing to hide behind. With mezcal instead of bourbon, it becomes something altogether more autumnal.

Persimmons are one of autumn's most underused gifts — brilliant orange, honey-sweet, with a flavor that sits somewhere between apricot, vanilla, and something entirely its own.