blast of the real thing

Oh, that was a cold walk! I must have somehow assumed that it would always stay near sixty. Not summer? Fine. Fall. Sixty. And so after breakfast...






... I set out with my daughter to the market.
Not so fast -- she reminds me. She's starting to carry a nice little load in her belly.






Oh, but it's cold! Windy, cloudy, cold. Forties are not sixties. Still, we slow down. And I make that mental adjustment: dress warmly henceforth!

At the market now. I have to stock up on maple syrup for Ed's pancakes for the winter and, as always, oyster mushrooms.

These are the last markets of the year. We don't have year round weather for it. We're not Nice or even Brittany. We're northern types.






Tonight, there's threat of frost again. I take a gamble with most plants, but bring in the super sensitive ones.

And Ed and I play tennis. Let me tell you how gripping these games are -- they're not just about tennis. They're our moment of no distraction, of the passing of time, of trying to improve, even as much within you resists the challenge, of patience, of unity of purpose. In other words -- lots of good stuff, just from hitting that well worn set of balls, back and forth, back and forth, as we move closer to dusk.






We come back and I toss the oyster mushroom, the home grown garlic, the cheeper eggs into the frying pan for a typical farmette supper. The last of the garden tomatoes go into the salad. We've been warned. We're ready for the frost.