This is probably our last eggplant of the season. Last night I fried up the slices, then quartered them and tossed them in a salad. The peppers all went into the freezer: a bag of diced sweet, a bag of diced hot. 

I've still got a few more peppers in the garden, though we're definitely on the slide into fall. But the marigolds and cilantro are going strong. I love marigolds in salads: so bright and sturdy.

Earlier in the day there were two giant pots simmering on the stove, but by this point I was just down to chicken stock. I ran the cooked tomatoes through a food mill and used them as the base for cream of tomato soup. And Tom specially requested grilled-cheese sandwiches as well, because what is better with a good tomato soup?

I did end up lighting a fire in the wood stove last night. And then Tom and I sat under the couch blanket and ate homemade ice cream and garden strawberries and listened to the Red Sox actually play well. Good pitching! Clutch hitting! What a surprise!

This morning I'm feeling as if I've had a teeny-tiny vacation: just a simple evening under a blanket; just a glass of wine with my tomato soup; just a deep sleep in which I did not dream about losing my (long dead) dog in the woods or enact any other terrible self-blaming scenario.

Today maybe I can ride this small peaceable wave a little bit longer.