It rained last night, and I can hear the sounds of dripping from trees and roof, though the sun isn't up yet so I can't see how wet anything actually is. Still, the drips are promising, as is the possibility of more scattered rain today. Every little downpour is precious. My tomatoes are half their accustomed height, and already beginning to yellow. The potatoes never flowered before their foliage began fading away. The shallow-rooted vegetables do better because my daily watering revives them, but the deep-rooted plants are suffering. I can keep them alive but they don't flourish.

Whatever our rain situation turns out to be, we clearly are going to have a damp and sticky day. Briefly, yesterday, the temperature dropped and the humidity lifted and I found myself wondering if I was going to have to remember what a long-sleeved shirt felt like. But that was short-lived; already we are back in the thick.

For the moment, though, the air machine is hushed and the windows are open, and the cicadas are creaking invisibly in the trees. I'll be editing again today, getting a haircut this afternoon, not hanging laundry on the outside lines, maybe not even watering the garden. What a vacation! . . . I am so sick of that hose.

Last night I made the most delicious salad: chunks of roasted eggplant, steamed green beans, slices of fresh tomato, seared shishito peppers, arugula, cilantro, olive oil, rice vinegar, salt and pepper. A dream of summer, in a big pottery bowl.

Even in a drought I have a garden of delights--though the delights are very hard work this year.