Sun-warmed tomatoes from the garden, margaritas at Watermark overlooking the boats in Northeast Harbor, bare legs as I dig in the garden–that was summer, and that was last week.
The foliage is brilliant lemon yellow, orange, and red, and it is fall. Our warm temperatures have created an Indian summer that is late. It is almost November and snow time, but we are all frolicking in shorts and big grins. The cruise ships are still offloading visitors, mostly from Germany right now, and they are bundled in wooly caps and down jackets, unaware that this is warm.
I guess there is no normal. I remember snow blasts in the end of October, and frozen pipes. This October of still swimming in the ocean is unexpected and precious. Last week was summer, I was making garden salads, and all my stylish boots were still a vague remembrance from last year.
Today I had a hankering for sauerkraut. How does this happen? What clock or cycle or something inside me, says, hey, let’s have sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and my brother-in-law’s yummy pork chops? Has my inner, more intelligent self said build up for the winter?
Last week I sliced summer tomatoes and swam in the brook. This week my husband dug potatoes to mash. Some transitions are imperceptible, like aging. Others astound.
This fall astonishes. Grab your shorts, make one ore last dash along the shore, then settle in for some hearty fall harvest fare.