freshly-dug potatoes

The gift in the garden that just keeps giving. They smell like wet rocks and starch.

sound of the weekend

Is there any more promising sound in spring than the sound of a metal shovel digging into the wet-smelling dirt of a vegetable patch?

a veil of lovely drizzle

If you live in San Francisco, you know what I'm talking about. This time of year is supposed to be our secret summer, since we don’t get much of that during the real summer. September is supposed to bring bright blue skies and warm, dry days. But every morning, I pull back the curtain on more bone-chilling, damp fog and want to crawl back into my warm bed.

Don’t get me wrong, fog has its own charms and mystery. Just not now. So I've been grumping about this betwixt-and-between weather, and downright savoring the day or two when the fog finally peels back to reveal sunshine.

Then yesterday morning, I opened the curtain on the softest rain. I went out back, where it was softly-softly coming down. Not quite rain but more than mist. The air was surprisingly warm and the weather felt close, as they say in Ireland. I loved it. Finally, something other than fog. I tilted my head and closed my eyes and then opened them to notice the lightest lace of water lighting up the garden.

Then today, sunshine. Halleluiah.

summerlist: weekend summer-finding

How good is the farmer’s market and garden these days? I am literally eating summer at every meal, despite this stubborn and gloomy fog that has settled over the city. Not pictured here are the beans and peas and potatoes that are bursting forth from my wee little garden right now. Lately, the glum San Francisco weather has meant taking to the road to find summer.

By now, we’ve got a pretty good drill: escape out of the city and hit winding country roads, stopping to pick up cherries along the way. We now affectionately call them road cherries. Why did it take me this long to realize that cherries are the best roap trip food? Windows down, spitting pits out the window, I can almost hear my grandfather Papa D's 8-track playing Kenny Rodgers.

Right about when we polish off the bag of cherries, we arrive at a nearby beach, haul out a blanket, reading material and a thermos of margaritas.

Summer found.