Portland is full of tannin shadows, and so are we.
It’s one of those things that you see, appreciate, but don’t know the actual word for until the memory tickles you enough to do a conversational, unspecific Google search. “What is it called when fallen leaves leave imprints on the sidewalk before they are cleared away?” The unsought-for “AI Summary” regurgitated the fact that there was no specific term, or that the term depended on whether they fell on set concrete and left an imprint or if it was set and left a stain from rotting.
As it was, the summary’s “scientific cause” description was adroit and perfect, because I am a sentimental nerd. Tannins are the compounds in leaves that, when they are wet, can leech out into the porous concrete and leave a “shadow” before the leaf itself is swept or blown away. Wine and tea snobs will also appreciate that tannins are the compounds that make their beverage of choice “dry” and crinkle the sides of the tongue, and cause the stains in a teacup. Equally poetic is the fact that consuming tannins too regularly or in high enough concentrations can cause anemia as they prevent the uptake of nutrients and minerals like iron.
For our autumnal purposes, however, “tannin shadow” is perfect because it’s the impact of a loss, left in bitterness. Fall in Portland is rainy and blustery, calling everyone to get cozy and reflect on the year, and the tannin shadows aren’t just on the sidewalk. Sitting in my sweaters and scarves, looking into my dark beers and whiskeys, and staring at patterns in pipe smoke on the back porch, I can’t help but acknowledge the legacies of losses.
The Black Hat Baker 