August: Eat Up

Shannon in her bloobs on sale era

August in Seattle is such an interesting month.

It also means wildfire smoke. The sky goes hazy orange, and suddenly we are on another planet.

It is hot, but I’m from Seattle. We do not kvetch about the sun being out. Even thinking about fall makes the pumpkin spice zombies perk up.

I went into a shop yesterday, and they had full Halloween displays. I am still over here eating popsicles. What are we doing?

The garden is at “Okay, now what?”

Hurry up. We made all this good food. Get to work.

Don’t make plans. Get to picking, girly. You’re the one who invested a small fortune in seeds.

Eat up, bitch.

It is already time to resow a few things for the cooler months. The apples, plums, quince, and grapes are all winking at me.

Us next!

I used to dread August because it felt like I had to cram in every summer activity I had not gotten to yet. I would stomp (some of you have seen this stomp, head to the side, determined)  frantically packing a picnic, planning outings, and getting the kayak meals ready to float.

Yes, we pack a cooler into the kayak along with the dog in her bright red life jacket. It is damn adorable.

Then there are the blueberries. I eat them until I am fully Violet Beauregarde, purple and round, waiting for the Oompa Loompas to roll me off to the juicing room.

Hey, man, they were six dollars for two pounds. It couldn’t be helped.

I like August now.

The mornings are cool and still. I have a bamboo stick to move the spiders and their webs to the side. Then I walk from plant to plant like Nancy Drew, trying to solve the same mystery every morning.

What will happen next?

Generally, the same thing that happened yesterday, but I like the routine.

The dog trails behind me, hoping for an errant bean or berry. Her own treasure hunt, bless her heart.

I plant tons of tomatoes every year, all started from seed. That would be the seed fortune I told you about. I still buy tomatoes at the farmers market because mine rarely make it through the kitchen door.

I do not feel guilt.

I share a few with Kirby, but he really does not understand that I am three-quarters tomato DNA. The rest is corn and chocolate.

Balance, baby.

I planted thornless blackberries because who wants to fight blackberries? Regular blackberries are a knife fight, and she will cut a bitch.

Mine get as big as my thumb.

Most people know I make freezer jam. I do it for three reasons. It uses less sugar. It is uncooked, so that raw, fierce blackberry flavor shines through. And I bought a small chest freezer from Costco years ago when it was on sale.

I also hesitate to turn on the stove in the August heat. Even the dehydrator lives out in the garage this time of year.

Freezer jam, wink.

I love giving the jars away.

I’m a chef. I live for the comments.

The peaches have made their debut, all seductive with their soft little fuzz and intoxicating perfume. They saw me coming. They even have a little blush on their cheeks, like they know what is about to happen.

And the peaches. Oh, the peaches.

Short of making this sound like soft porn, one word: luscious.

Porn rhymes with corn. We are still on theme.

The figs are ripe too. I love how each one feels like a celebration. They are so soft and juicy that most of them get eaten by themselves, but a few will be split open and pressed onto a warm slice of crusty bread with creamy, funky blue cheese and a little honey drizzled over the top.

Call it dinner if I eat more than one.

See? Balance.

I go outside for one tomato and come back with my shirt full of produce, purple fingers, and a dog who has helped herself to a bean.

Then I remember the zucchini.

Okay. I’m coming.

Let me get my bamboo stick.