It isn’t summer any more. I know that because when I wake up in the morning I snuggle deeper under the covers against the cool breeze; and because the world turns a particular September shade of golden in the late afternoon; and I know summer is gone because I’ve begun to think about squash and apple picking and making big pots of soup.
It is a fact of life that my work as a food writer often pushes me far away from the seasons. I work on Thanksgiving stories in April (and invite friends over to share our autumnal feast on Tax Day); I make patriotic strawberry-blueberry shortcakes in January; and in July my oven works its mighty magic for hours to produce succulent Christmas roasts. But I still feel, smell, hear and see the seasons as they truly are.
Right now, in the middle of September, I am not ready for gargantuan cuts of meat, but zucchini and corn are old news. I’m happy to zig-zag across seasons with chicken, herbs from my garden, and fall-ish vegetables like carrots and potatoes.