No, not really. But the farmer’s market this morning was the herald. Gone are the berries, lush and glistening black, in their place the first of the apples, the seckel pears. The piles of corn are no longer so sky high, the tomatoes are in their place, along with watermelons as big as the kiddo. We returned home with a haul of summer rounding the corner, and as I sliced up one of last week’s peaches for Sean, my shirt still sticking to my back with sweat from having carried the full laden backpack of goodies, my gaze drifted over the piles of produce waiting to be washed, sorted, put away. An apple coffeecake, perhaps, the one from the Ken Haedrich book, maybe a meatloaf, garlic roasted chicken wings. The freezers are full of blueberry breads for winter, the bins of frozen roasted tomatoes for bright thick sauces in January getting fuller every week as I roast off another 10 pounds.
It may be 86 degrees, but my thoughts are of the rush of harvest to come, and the heavy silence of winter.
the haul
green tomatoes to be grilled and topped with sherry vinaigrette and chopped pistachios and hazelnuts.
white peaches
purple peruvian potatoes
spaghetti squashes
10 pounds red tomatoes for roasting
heirloom tomatoes for slicing (pineapple, brandywine, cherokee purple)
mixed heirloom cherry and pear tomatoes
seckel pears
jonathan apples
green beans
purple onions