The raspberry canes are bowed from the weight of ripe fruit, some overripe, blooming with mold, but most of the fruit is good to eat. Of all berries, I love raspberries the most and the second crop of alpine strawberries that comes in the fall just before frost.
Usually it's confusing to come home after being away--Provincetown is another country--but not this time. It's brilliant and cool, and I have new books: "High Wind in Jamaica," "Children as Artists," which I bought for two dollars at the Provincetown Library book sale, and "A Rage for Rock Gardening," which I read about on Mark Doty's blog. All three are compact books that snug into one hand.
The once creaking, wobbling, sagging dining room chairs came back re-glued and reupholstered from Jose's shop. I don't hate the material I chose--a black and white Greek key design--and the job didn't break the bank. Last time we did it ourselves--too long ago to tell you. I don't like to number the years.
I've already taken a manuscript to the photocopier and made a meal with whatever was at hand: spaghetti with peas, Sicilian eggplant, handfuls of chopped parsley, and olive oil, raspberries for dessert. My fingers are still stained with berry juice.
