I’m thinking about snapping the bottoms off stalks of asparagus, a regular ritual the past couple months. Standing over the sink, the radio on, other cooking activity behind me, the quick task of two servings of asparagus in my hands. The season is probably tapering off now, but new harvests are just beginning.
And I’m thinking of walking to my car at lunchtime to check the tires for chalk. I can be a cheap son-of-a-gun and have manipulated the nearby free four-hour parking since I started the job more than a year ago. So around noon I walk out and see if the meter cop has been by. If they have, it’s a quick drive around the block and a different parking spot. Before the recent snap of autumnal weather, when the temperatures at mid-day were in the low 70s and the skies were blue, the walk was a moment to notice and remark on the wondrousness of summer (and how we really needed some rain).
And I’m thinking of the St. Paul Farmer’s Market. Of rising on a Saturday and heading straight down there because the coffee and bagels at the coffee and bagel place are so good. So we beeline right there and sit at a picnic table in the sun, sandwiched between our neighbors, and then wander the aisles. Some days it’s about cheese and meats, others about fruit and vegetables, toward the end of the season bushels of basil for pesto. This time of year it’s the flower sellers with their plastic flats of fragile flora, delicate petals that look up toward the shopper, asking to be taken home like a puppy from the pound.
Tip-toe down aisles
of candy-colored flowers
Crouch to see just one