irene

Irene is coming. As usual the whole island is aflutter, charging into Cronigs for bread and milk and batteries, filling tubs with water for the upcoming power outages, obsessively checking the weather on iphones. I went home and made this quiche instead.

August is almost over, and with the taste of cooler weather comes that seasonal urge to surface from the sea of the farm’s life, its endless bounty and its endless needs. In September I will turn on the kitchen radio and make tomato sauce for hours, heedless of time, and rejoin the living.