Buckling, as in down. Working on the fall books, including my own, realizing that September is just a week away.
Everything else has been put on hold.
Except the Jersey tomatoes. Thursday I got yet another load of them in this week's box oh cherry-grape-heirloom-beefsteak-zebras-and-yellows, along with some basil so fresh it looks fake, some fat jalapenos (I chose the hottest ones, with the white crackling), cilantro, more garlic, red and white baby onions, a gorgeous bunch of leeks, more chubby infantile potatoes, more bell peppers, two purple-and-white striped eggplants, chard with rainbow stems, and another watermelon. The gazpacho from last week is almost gone, so I may make another batch, maybe with the green and yellow tomatoes this time, and I'll also use the jalapenos, garlic, onions, cilantro and more tomatoes to make fresh salsa (really a pico de gallo the way I do it, hand-chopped, not with a blender or processor). The new neighbors will be gifted with some of that. Maybe a leek and potato soup too, which I can freeze if it's too warm to eat it, or serve slightly chilled, vichyssoise-style.
I've *got* to take my camera lens in for repair. (It's the iris blades that are stuck, and I'm afraid to open it and try to fix it myself.)
I know I owe you (and you and you and you and you and) an answer/email/poem/book/call/visit. I'll be back as soon as I can.
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