last sum­mer days

It’s hard, every sum­mer, to pin­point when the sea­son begins to give way to fall. It’s still hot, and sun­ny, and the birds are still chirp­ing their way from bird­feed­er to bird­feed­er.  The hydrangea blooms extrav­a­gant­ly, attend­ed by Rol­lie’s bees.

But sum­mer is near­ly over.  The ter­race that was cov­ered in weeds when we arrived is now cov­ered in crunchy leaves, although I don’t see them fall.  They just appear, remind­ing us that it’s time to go “home.” The pic­nic table, home of so many deli­cious lunch­es in the sun and sup­pers that only end in dark­ness, is too dark at sup­per­time now for us to eat outside.

We have retreat­ed into the din­ing room, which is cozy and beau­ti­ful, but it is not summer. 

The intense, sweaty heat of a July ten­nis game has mel­lowed into a sort of lazy imi­ta­tion of play­ing, let­ting shots devel­op into two-bounc­ers, and our cold water not beck­on­ing so imper­a­tive­ly.  Time to go “home.”

We’ve start­ed think­ing about the new house that feels so unfa­mil­iar.  It’s fun­ny to think that Elsie the house-sit­ter has been there for two whole months with­out us, and that even her moth­er and grand­moth­er have spent much more time there on their two-week vis­it than we have!  Will we like it, when we get back?

And I have very sad news: dear, dar­ling, tiny Mul­der did not make it.  Her brief month on earth with us was all that she was allowed of life.

The shel­ter kind­ly informed us, and told us how sor­ry they were, and how thank­ful that we had tak­en such good care of her and her fam­i­ly for a month.  But life con­spired in so many ways against the lit­tle thing.  She was the small­est in the lit­ter, and nev­er seemed to grow at all.  Per­haps there were too many kit­tens for her to get her fair share.  But we will nev­er for­get her, or the pre­cious hours she spent in our lives.

Donate to the shel­ter, or any shel­ter, if you pos­si­bly can.

Our thoughts are turn­ing now to our Lon­don cat fam­i­ly, who I can tell you from past expe­ri­ence will seem ENOR­MOUS when we get home!  Of course, to be fair, they ARE enor­mous by any stan­dards, but most espe­cial­ly when com­pared to tiny new­born kit­tens.  it will be love­ly to be reunit­ed with them.

Avery has had her exam results, and they were stu­pen­dous!  The news came at 5 a.m. and we were per­fect­ly hap­py to be wok­en up to share it.  We are all thrilled and proud at the suc­cess­ful con­clu­sion to such a long, dragged-out ordeal of 27 exams in 11 sub­jects.  Now she can drop all the sub­jects she does­n’t love and devote the next two years to Russ­ian, his­to­ry, eco­nom­ics and pol­i­tics, all the things about which she is pas­sion­ate.  A future diplo­mat in the mak­ing, I’m sure.

We’ve had our last trip to the swim­ming pool, emp­ty of school­child­ren and feel­ing just this side of chilly, and def­i­nite­ly our last trip to the Lau­rel Din­er this after­noon, for one more but­tery lunch.

I rev­eled in one last trip to the farmer’s mar­ket, for toma­toes that are thank­ful­ly full of flaws, char­ac­ter, and flavor.

There’s hon­ey made by the very bees that peo­ple my hydrangea (with a lit­tle help from Farmer Rol­lie and Tricia).

And the most fab­u­lous, creamy goat cheese, per­fect for stuff­ing pep­pers for the grill.

We have eat­en more ears of corn than I could pos­si­bly count!  Scarce­ly a din­ner has gone by with­out at least two ears for each of us.  I get it all week long at the farm­stand, but the farmer’s mar­ket corn is the very best, sweet bi-color.

Yes­ter­day actu­al­ly I eschewed the goat cheese in favor of the equal­ly stun­ning feta, which by after­noon’s end had mor­phed into sim­ply fab­u­lous chick­en sausages.  What fun that messy project is.

Chick­en Sausages with Feta, Red Onion and Chives

(makes about six large sausages)

3 pounds chick­en breast fil­lets, care­ful­ly trimmed

2 tbsps Pen­zey’s Fox Point Sea­son­ing (or oth­er savory herb blend)

1 tbsp olive oil 1 large red onion, diced

2 cloves gar­lic, minced

8 ounces feta cheese (or goat would do as well)

hand­ful chives, minced

Put your chick­en through the min­cer and set aside in a large bowl.  Sprin­kle the Fox Point Sea­son­ing over.

Heat the olive oil in a fry­ing pan and fry the onion and gar­lic until soft.  Allow to cool slightly.

Mix the chick­en, veg­eta­bles, cheese and most of the chives very well (keep­ing a lit­tle bit of chives aside for sprin­kling when ready to serve).

Now get your cas­ings ready.  Inter­est­ing­ly, the cas­ings I get in Lon­don are from lamb intestines, but these Con­necti­cut ones are labeled “hog.”

Care­ful­ly put the chick­en mix­ture through the min­cer with the blade removed.  Let the cas­ings fill up plumply.

Then tie them off.  I just hap­pened to have some very pret­ty vin­tage string.

Saute them slow­ly in more olive oil (I used a gor­geous Ital­ian-herbed oil from the farmer’s mar­ket).  Sprin­kle with the reserved chives (as opposed to the out­go­ing ones).  They are firm, juicy, cheesy and crisp on the out­side.  And you know EXACT­LY what’s in your sausages.

Avery and I have been hard at work fin­ish­ing the last few dish­es she want­ed to pho­to­graph here at Red Gate Farm, for our cook­book.  Some­day these spat­tered notes will be in the Smith­son­ian some­day, I’m sure.

Of course Red Gate Farm would­n’t be com­plete with­out many, many games of Aggra­va­tion.  John shouts with dis­gust over a cap­tured mar­ble, a shout so dis­turb­ing to the qui­et coun­try air that David cross­es the street, ask­ing mild­ly, “Did some­body fall off a ladder?”

Rol­lie ambled out of his truck one blue-sky morn­ing for a long, relax­ing chat pep­pered with anec­dotes about machin­ery repairs and the hay­ing sea­son.  Judy and I found time one rainy day for a lob­ster-roll lunch and a long gos­sip.  And she solved one of the age-old prob­lems of Red Gate Farm — not enough cloth­ing stor­age — with a trip to a local con­sign­ment shop.  Final­ly, even if I have all the laun­dry done, every­thing has a place.  It fits right in, under the eaves.

Yes­ter­day we made our annu­al pil­grim­age to Tri­cia and Rol­lie’s and lit­tle Rol­lie’s farm, to cel­e­brate the arrival of a batch of chicks.  The hen had dis­ap­peared for weeks on end, then hid­den her­self in the barn to have her babies.  Oh my.

It was exact­ly like one of those fluffy pipe-cleaner­ish chicks you put in a child’s East­er bas­ket!  I also got to hold one of its aunts.

Kate got in on the action, naturally.

Tri­cia and I raid­ed her mag­nif­i­cent gar­den.  Just look at this oregano!

Lit­tle Rol­lie and Judy basked in the sun.

While Biggest Rol­lie posed in front of the most Amer­i­can barn in the world.  Still Life With Chickens.

In the sun­shine, it was as hot as any sum­mer day, and humid.  Luck­i­ly Quin­cy is well-ventilated.

It’s been a love­ly, love­ly sum­mer.  Prob­a­bly it’s been a bit too bor­ing for Avery, but I’m of the mind that after the Spring of Exam Hell, she need­ed a dose of bore­dom.  What a lux­u­ry to have her around all the time, mak­ing trips to the library and to the Gap, to the pool, or just sit­ting around on the ter­race watch­ing the days go by.

To think that when we next see our sit­ting room, it will be ready for a Christ­mas tree in the cor­ner.  It’s hard to get my head around that.

Dori­tos, Fritos, Chee­tos.  Swim­ming pool, Mar­co Polo, tram­po­line and hors­es in the mead­ow.  Grand­moth­ers and cousins, aunts and uncles.  Goldfinch­es and chip­munks.  “Days of Our Lives,” “Gen­er­al Hos­pi­tal,” and News 4 New York.  Lob­ster, crab­cakes, Boar’s Head dill pick­les and Penn­syl­va­nia Dutch noo­dles.  Tiger lilies, ferns and walk­ing around bare­foot.  A dusty road, the best neigh­bors in the world, and votive can­dles in the night­time windows.

Thank you, Amer­i­ca.  It’s been great.