If you’re one of those people who gets irritated by the specter of pumpkin spice — or, gasp, Halloween decor — on an 85-degree week in September; if you understand that there are what will feel like infinite months left to spend shivering and longing for stew, and there’s no reason to beckon them any sooner; if you find yourself gritting out “but there’s another week of summer!” at your screen when confronted with ads for wool coats and other things you simply refuse to acknowledge before you must, come sit down. You’re among friends.
Well, a single friend. It’s feeling lonely here. But I insist upon embracing summer cooking for as long as summer produce lasts — tomatoes in particular. I miss them all winter too much to throw them out of the kitchen when the first apple arrives.
[I also want to make it absolutely clear that no matter how it seems, I am not projecting my complicated feelings about one child starting middle school and the other, their senior year of high school, on dwindling summer produce. Not even a little.]
