But it’s a long, long while from May to December
And the days grow short when you reach September
And the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
And I haven’t got time for waiting game
In May the tomato plants were soaking up the sunlight, growing against the house on the second-storey deck. I loved sitting at the table, watching the bees visit, the yellow-faced, the Sitka, black-tailed, and I loved watching the fruits swell in July, ripening a bit later this year than last, but worth the wait. And now, on a cool September morning, the maples leaves beginning to turn, I’ve cut up many pounds of them to make roasted sauce.
The plump ox-hearts grown from seed bought at the Bolhao market in Porto, the Pruden’s Purples, Brandywines, small Romas, a few Berkeley Tie-Dyes, along with a head of our pungent garlic, branches of rosemary, olive oil, and some flakey Maldon salt. They’ll roast and caramelize a little and in December we’ll still be enjoying September’s tomatoes on pasta or pizza or spread on sourdough bread.
I haven’t got time for the waiting game. There are grapes to make into juice which will then be made into jelly, fragrant with rosemary and sage, apples (still!) to juice and freeze, beans to pick, though the deer got into the garden after a bear broke down one of the gates and made a bee-line for the bean poles, completely demolishing one tee-pee of romanos. Luckily there are several more still producing.
This morning at the lake a single loon called. Most days a single feather floats just beyond me. Soon the geese will be flying overhead and the birds who gather on the railings, watching the kitchen with such urgency for their seeds, chickadees and the nuthatches who fly with them, the Steller’s jays with their squawks and whistles, one of them following me from window to window, well, those birds will be our winter company.
And the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I’d spend with you
These precious days I’d spend with you
Do we ever have enough? Enough time, enough room, enough of anything we thought we needed and worked for and got, and now live surrounded by, weighted down with, wondering if it was what we wanted anyway? I don’t know. September fills me with questions. 60 years ago I was a girl getting ready for grade 6, looking forward to whatever the year might bring. We lived in a house with apple trees, pear trees, and a grape vine on a fence along the driveway. My mother made pies and crumbles, sauce dark with brown sugar, and even jelly, though those grapes were Concord and the preserve was deep purple. These grapes are mostly Chardonnay, though there are a few clumps of Marechal Foch too so the jelly will be green, with a faint pink tint.
These are precious days, when I stop to think about them. Swimming in a cool clean lake, eating a clump of grapes tasting slightly of wine, and a kitchen filled with the scent of rich sauce. I haven’t got time for the waiting game. There are apples to peel for pies, jars to wash, and bowls of tomatoes on every surface.
Note: the song is of course “September Song”, composed by Kurt Weill, lyrics by James Maxwell Anderson.
