Sometimes, the idea of “preservation” brings up images of other people. Hippies with epic sauerkraut crocks. Farmers with 200 pounds of tomatoes. Brooklyn hipsters with secret connections at the Greenmarket. People with more time, less work, more gardening skills, better grandmothers who taught them how to make blueberry jam. Continue reading
The plum trees have gone crazy. Both the proud peacocky one in the corner (tiny fruit that taste like candy), and the sturdy and reliable pillar of fruit production in the back center (larger, tarter, shaped like a heart). There are plums in every colander and bowl in my kitchen, and there’s nowhere to put anything else. We’ve had plum shrub, plum jam, and chicken with plums. Plum cake, other plum cakes, and one more plum cake again. I had to put this sign on the fence today.
And like that, the conversation turns from popsicles to lunch boxes. It must be that moment of the summer when it instantly becomes clear that the end is near. Happy ides of August.
I took these pictures the other day. The girls put down their comic books and let go of being bored for a few minutes so they could pretend school had actually started. Rosie even put on clothes. And this–this scene of two peaceful girls and their dad happily packing lunches, sharing treats and homemade goodies? This is not actually what making lunch tends to look like in our kitchen. This is a set-up. Nice though, isn’t it? Continue reading
The August chill arrived this week. It surprises me every year. We’ll be walking through the field after dinner, and where once was all warmth, there are cold pockets of air. It’s like the cold places in a lake, defined by their edges until the warmth starts up again. The feeling of this localized chill on my skin makes me think about backpacks and lunch boxes and how again I’ve put off scheduling the girl’s yearly school physicals. When I was little, the chill would make me crave apple pies and the rows of school supplies at Kmart, and I still feel those things, too. Continue reading