Summer's been a sea of slow, simple, busy, beautiful, heartbreaking, ordinary, too-swift days.
Living them is always enough, and I haven't felt like blogging, but I break this drought with solid evidence that photograph-happy bloggers (i.e. ABIGAIL HERSELF) are stupid. I'm in the middle of canning right now (and by "right now," I mean "two minutes ago before I ran into the sunroom to put up this post"), half-sunken in a slough of cucumbers, beans, and squashes; peppers, herbs, and peas. I found the time, however, to snap the following picture when I looked down at the work of my hands and found it lovely.
Ah. Freshly-picked dill weed, pungent and bright. Peppercorns, dark and round.
Then I laughed and took this picture to show the truth outside the frame. A sloppy vision of shredded zucchini, pickles ready for canning, elderberries, and a half-ne**id sidekick.
Then I took this picture to show the frame yet larger. Front and center is a box of miscellaneous stuff my dad just dropped off for me to sell on Ebay some fine day. Unseen are the pounds of green peppers behind me, and the stack of canning jars on the floor to the right.
Then, to top it off with a death blow of hilarity, I took a picture of the garlic skins, elderberry leaves, peppercorns, and playdough on which I stood.
At least the madness is mostly confined to the kitchen.
In less cluttered news, here are my dirty feet next to the season's first bowl of tomatoes. One hundred and twenty four plants, the majority grown from seed indoors and nutured into adulthood, are dying of blight, so I'll probably showcase every last bowl of these red beauties we get, with true gratefulness.
Father of grain, Father of wheat,
Father of cold and Father of heat,
Father of minutes, Father of days,
Father of whom we most solemnly praise.