But not this year. On July 5, the skies remained stubbornly grey and we were still zipped into our polar fleece. The plants we had dared set out in the garden (with wall-o-waters to keep them warm) were still the same size as when we planted them two weeks prior. Green shoots were everywhere, but that turning point, when vitality takes over and a bountiful harvest seems inevitable, hadn’t happened. The Seattle Times reported that our governor had applied for federal disaster relief for 29 counties, where rain, wind, frost and too-cool weather have conspired to seriously damage crops and discourage pollinators.
And here were are, preparing to turn the calendar page tomorrow, into a month that should be full of overripe tomatoes and stealth zuchinni giveaways. But our tomato plants have yet to set a single fruit. Each squash plant has had exactly one blossom, and it’s too early to tell whether fruit will set. Our CSA farmer has fared a little better, with peas and dark leafy greens still the only part of our share that hint at excess. And we are still wearing sweaters and socks.
When will the season turn? Well, two weeks ago, after two days of temperatures barely over 80 degrees, the first tomatoes appeared in our share; a disappointingly scant pint basket for each member. They were, without question, delicious, but my visions of rows of jars of summer-red sauce for pasta throughout the winter will never be realized at this rate.
It feels frankly odd to not be canning and jamming my way through a summer: last year I was not home, but rasperries and stawberries came our way in enough volume that more than a few jars were made (and given away before we moved). This year, berries can be found at the co-op, to be sure, but most are still coming from far south, and carry price tags to discourage the would-be bounty hunter. The federal assistance has not come through, and I can only hope the bees aren't too discouraged by the still unseasonably cool temperatures.
Little One finished up his week of day camp in the foothills, where we traditionally fill baskets of blackberries and blueberries on the drive home, But there are no blackberries to be had--yet. I remain hopeful on this account. The blueberry farm did put up their sign on Friday, so there is a glimmer of hope on that horizon. But it remains to be see how easy or slim the pickings are.
They say that eating seasonally means learning grace. Grace to wait patiently for fruits to set and ripen, grace to put things up for the leaner months. I tell myself there is still time, and indeed, there is plenty of green fruit on the plum and apple trees. We will scour the farmers' markets this coming week, and pray for warmth to ripen the bounty yet to come. We will pray for grace.
It feels frankly odd to not be canning and jamming my way through a summer: last year I was not home, but rasperries and stawberries came our way in enough volume that more than a few jars were made (and given away before we moved). This year, berries can be found at the co-op, to be sure, but most are still coming from far south, and carry price tags to discourage the would-be bounty hunter. The federal assistance has not come through, and I can only hope the bees aren't too discouraged by the still unseasonably cool temperatures.
Little One finished up his week of day camp in the foothills, where we traditionally fill baskets of blackberries and blueberries on the drive home, But there are no blackberries to be had--yet. I remain hopeful on this account. The blueberry farm did put up their sign on Friday, so there is a glimmer of hope on that horizon. But it remains to be see how easy or slim the pickings are.
They say that eating seasonally means learning grace. Grace to wait patiently for fruits to set and ripen, grace to put things up for the leaner months. I tell myself there is still time, and indeed, there is plenty of green fruit on the plum and apple trees. We will scour the farmers' markets this coming week, and pray for warmth to ripen the bounty yet to come. We will pray for grace.
