“I hope you had a good summer,” I said to Teapot this morning. We were getting ready to take the dog out, and the skies were grey, foreboding. Yesterday, we’d gotten caught in a brief rainstorm: Teapot stayed dry beneath the raincover I’d packed for the stroller. I got soaked because, well, apparently, forethought only goes as far as the child sometimes. Luckily, the August humidity took care of the damp soon after the rain stopped.
As easily as summer creeps up on you – one day, you just know it’s too warm to bring a jacket and then that jacket stays, unworn, on the back of a chair the entire season – fall does the same. One day, you bypass your cropped pants in favour of jeans. Another day, you reach for the cardigan to throw on just in case the weather cooled down. Then suddenly, you’re wearing shoes, not sandals, and searching for your scarf. I thought about a sweater the other day. A sweater!
I bought a few long-sleeved onesies for Teapot the other day and tried not to be sad about packing away the short-sleeved ones that had gotten her through summer. The ones she will never fit again. Ever.
The coming season is evident at the grocery store, too. Where did the mangoes go? The blueberries/blackberries/strawberries/raspberries? Suddenly I find myself reaching for the end-of-season nectarines – so sweet, they’re almost boozy – and late farmer’s market corn-on-the-cob. I think about nourishing soups and stews. Oven-braised, slow-cooked, caramel-crusted chicken.
For me, the mark of a good summer lies in the answer to this question: did we make it to the beach at least once? You bet.
Hope you had a good summer, too.