It’s a cozy, rainy day and I’m tucked in the kitchen looking out the window. On the stove, I’ve got chicken broth simmering and its rich, comforting scent has filled up the entire house. This morning, I decided I would finally try my hand at making sourdough bread so I’ve got the starter bubbling in a bowl, which it will do for the next 48 hours so it can, apparently, capture wild yeast from the air.

As I look outside, I realize just how much I love days like these, when the weather has a firm hand in determining how you’ll spend your time. Rainy days, which are second only to snowy days in my opinion, provide the most beautiful excuses. For example, I can’t go outside for a jog because it’s raining. I can’t go weed at the children’s garden today for the master gardener’s program because the workday has been canceled on account of the weather. So my day has opened up like a book.

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Gabrielle hopped into the car after school the other day and handed me a sheet of paper.

“Our class is putting together a UK basket this year,” she announced, pushing up her glasses and turning to me. “In other words, I need to bring some loot.”

I looked at the sheet and immediately realized it was that time of year again: fall festival season, one of the richest school traditions across the region.

I was first introduced to this concept when Gabrielle, my stepdaughter, entered kindergarten. I expected a little party, possibly a parade and Gabrielle coming home with a few Tootsie Rolls stuffed in her pocket.

Boy, was I in for a shock.

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My stepdaughter Gabrielle and I just spent the last week in Kelowna, British Columbia, to celebrate my little brother Matthew’s wedding. In the time we were there, I was reminded of just how much work planning that Big Day is. Every morning, we’d sit around the kitchen table and the questions would start. Would it rain? Did they need to rent a tent in case it did? Why hadn’t they heard from the caterers? Should they stop at the music store to make sure they knew what they needed for the DJ? Would it rain?

But one morning, in the midst of the flurry, Gabrielle and I escaped in our runners to head out for a walk. Shortly after we hit the road, Gabrielle pointed out what she termed “a goat path,” a narrow trail that carved out of the side of the hill between a few houses. Eager to get off the boring pavement, we headed up and soon the path widened into a trail that climbed upwards.

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