How did it happen that it's the last day of August already? In my mind it's still early summer, the pace completely leisurely, a sense of promise in the air (smelling of wild thyme or of mint).
And in my heart I'm in Greece, in just such a taverna, researching a story, jotting down some local color for the story of my life.
Instead, I'm slow to move, malingering in immobility after the weeks' gathering rush, doing no writing, making no plans, hoarding my flagging energy.
Cooking is a constant, anyway. I revel in the seasonal tomatoes (made into salads with good feta, cucumber, mint or marjoram, and the splurge of an avocado). I was happy to find pimientos de padron at last week's market, which I've grilled on the stovetop in a little olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. I roasted chicken thighs with garlic cloves and green apples and thyme; shaped Indian lamb patties with green peas, spices and a little lemon zest and yogurt; made a garlicky Turkish salad with spinach leaves and scallions.
The bleating of the unseen goat in the neighbor's yard makes me feel I'm somewhere other than I am, as well, so maybe in the end I'll be transported utterly.