Sliding into fall.

Summer.  It's over.  Today I steam-cleaned the carpets with one of those things that's like a winnebago, but sized like a stroller.  It weighs about as much as a motor home and is as noisy, but when we're done we can return it to the drugstore and our carpets are soft and clean.  Steam cleaning carpets is an extraordinarily satisfying chore.

I know summer is officially over  because when the sun came out and the breeze blew warm and dry I didn't think, "Ahh, nice day."  Instead I thought, "Ooooooh, Indian Summer."   And I have to say that I'm a little worried that's a racist term, but it's such a flattering term.  If it is racist, will someone please let me know?

It is mid-september and my winter coats have been hauled up from the basement and aired, my sundresses and sandals given a good shake and stored away.

I will miss raspberries, fuzzy and soft as earlobes but better, because you can eat them.

I will miss being able to go cut flowers from my garden for dinner parties, and having meals outside.

I will miss the warm afternoon sun shining through my husband's frosty martini.

I will miss having friends say, when we go to pick up our daughter after a play date, "Do you want some salmon?  I caught it a few hours ago."

So, I will miss summer, and all the mild warmth and enduring sunlight a northwest summer delivers.  But, and this is something really exciting, I discovered a new reason to love winter, and that that reason is steak grilled in one's own fireplace.  I happened upon this situation by accident, because it started drizzling and I didn't feel like going out to fire up the grill.  Now I will grill all winter, over coals and from the comfort of my sofa.

My daughters and I had a night alone recently.  We try to make it special, and this night alone was made special with cocoa, a fire, and a big ribeye, sprinkled with salt and pepper and placed on a rack - the same rack we use for cooling cookies - then propped up over some coals.  The beefy, fatty smell and the sizzling sound made for the perfect appetizer.  We ate only the beef, quite filled up with cocoa as we were, sitting before the fire with grease running down to our wrists. 

Home baked bread will be another good thing about this winter.  I've learned to make Jim Lahey's 24-hour no-knead bread and I may never buy bread again.  Kneading?  Who needs it?  If you're able to mix yeast, water, flour and salt and let it sit for 24 hours, you could have a loaf of this every day.

Bread, beef, fire.  Winter might not be so bad, after all.

A Practically Perfect Day

I had the best day last week. 
First, I got a fat wedge of a hand-written letter in the post. 

I had forgotten the sneak-away-with-it pleasure a thick letter brings.  This one, from a loved one in Florida, lasted through a glass of Vinho Verde while I sat in a comfortable chair in the back yard and watched my daughters throw crepe-paper streamers over the swing set.

Then, my husband brought home a paper bag of vegetables that the parent of one of his students grew.

This is a beautiful sight, no?  I wanted to eat all of these, at the same time.  Figuring that if they ripened simultaneously they could be cooked and eaten the same, I chopped and tossed them into a pot with olive oil, salt and pepper.

While that cooked I went to check on the girls.  One quietly read a book on the sofa while the other had dragged her sleeping bag out to the yard and put herself to sleep.

The sight of her, cuddled down in a patch of sun on one of our last days of summer, made me happier than even snowflakes that melt on your nose and eyelashes.

I cut a few of the last sweet peas while she slept. 

She woke up thirty minutes later, sweet and happy and smelling of toasted baby skin.  We ate sitting on our back steps, in the sun, waiting for bats.  The tang of the tomatoes, the sweetness of the beets, the full meatiness of that red onion and the mellow bottom of the zucchini were amazing.  I had four helpings and then felt sad that there would be none left for lunch the next day.

These are a few of my favorite things.