You know that day when the wind changes, and there’s that unmistakable little chill in the air you look off into the horizon and you swear you can smell fall, and then the winter coming? Well, today wasn’t that day. At all. Here we are in late September, up in the Berkshires, and it’s still so hot and humid that we have to crank the air conditioners all damned day.
It is sad, however, to come to the end of the growing season. The local uber-nursery Wards – a store that seems to attract every white old-school preppie dad and mom from Massachusetts and Connecticut – shut down most of their incredible greenhouse of exotic plants, leaving naught but a bunch of pumpkins and a selection of bulbs for next year. It’s a little unsettling. Up here, you can catch the faint whiff of desperation that might have kicked in for the ancient farmers, looking to the sky, then to their fields, and wondering if they had enough to get through the lean season not too far off.
All I know is this: if you could live on tomatoes, I’ve got the garden for you. And I know it’s the crustiest clich on earth, how homegrown vegetables taste better, but good lord above, I wish all of you could taste these:
this week’s haul Lindsay, Tessa and Dana in the background wondering why I’m taking pictures of vegetables