The air this morning was crisp and dry, and I could almost smell Autumn on the breeze. It's not a bad way to begin a new month. I know I'm supposed to be reveling in the bounty of summer-- what self-respecting food writer wishes away baskets of tomatoes and armloads of zucchini and the hidden treasure that is fresh corn?
But I can't help it. There's a pumpkin vine growing in the back yard from a seed buried by a mouse, and the large orb that plunked down in the middle of the dog path is starting to turn orange. Mist whispered across my mother's pool in the morning light, dragonflies dancing a waltz of dips and sips from the surface, and I was pulled into daydreams about wool socks and steamy soup. Something orange. Something savory. Something that sticks to the bones and warms the soul. Maybe it's the New York Country Girl in me stretching her legs, wishing for concord grapes plucked fresh from the vine, tasting of tart sour juice (because I like them just before they go ripe), followed by the cheek-puckering flavor of the skin that follows, one I can only describe as purple.
I know August will be a long, slow waltz of hot days and sticky nights. I know we'll have bonfires and fireflies and if we're lucky, some shooting stars. And with Nora, mermaid adventures in the pool and sticky ice pop kisses. Scabbed knees and princess band-aids. Adventures at the playground. All the other joys that come with reliving life again for the first time with your most beloved tiny human.
I can dream of Autumn without wishing my days away. That's the trick. Something to love, something to do, something to look forward to.