Watering my herb garden one recent evening, I realized how quickly the tail end of summer is coming upon us.
The angle of the sun had changed, ever so slightly. I grabbed my camera and captured the tall grasses near the old horse barn. My mother and I planted them 13 years ago on my birthday, along with false indigo, lavender and thyme. Today, the patch is filled with brown-eyed Susans and goldenrod, surprise visitors from some other garden or wild spot. They are welcome in my scruffy little back garden.
Did I mention the goldenrod was turning yellow? I hear crickets all day long and in the morning, I can hear the low rumble of traffic in the morning. It sounds different than it does in, say, May or June, and it is a sound I associate with this time of year, when the pace of life begins to pick up. I have no idea what causes it, perhaps someone reading this will tell me.
What this all means for me, year after year, is that I want to make ratatouille, stuffed peppers, and anything containing basil, thyme or rosemary. I make frequent visits to my herb garden and become heavy handed with dried herbes de Provence.
I forget about the lighter salads I crave in spring. Strawberries begin to bore me; so do grapes. Blueberries remain a favorite, but I start thinking about the tangy bite of apples, too.
I look ahead to crispy mornings and cooler nights and burnished woods and the lambent light of September, but part of me mourns the lost spring, that season of such hope. It will, God willing, come again.
For now, autumn awaits. And I am making ratatouille tomorrow night.