We had a nice little rainstorm last night, setting up a perfect Saturday morning for transplanting kale and chard and sowing seeds for other fall crops: spinach, arugula, cilantro. And the rain made for a cozy evening in the house too. In the dim and breezy twilight I made kale soup, toasted leftover cheese biscuits, tossed a big salad of green beans and cucumbers, danced to Aretha's Gold . . . a cheerful evening: me alone downstairs, bouncing and warbling; T working upstairs; and then a reunion over the soup--which was outstanding. Listen, if you are a kale hater, think again. This is not one of those leathery stylish salads. This is an old-fashioned soup, with firm Iberian and Italian roots, and it is tender and delicate, with a sweet unaggressive flavor, very soothing on a cool summer night. It can be vegetarian or meat-based, and it is straight-up comfort food.

This weekend I'll need to carve out a few hours to read my Donne homework, and I'll need to prep a bit for Tuesday's workshop, but otherwise I'll be moseying around the garden, ready for distractions, should you feel like stopping by for a visit. I'm still reading that crazy Roth novel, Sabbath's Theater, which is like being immersed in a lighted firework. And I just heard from my son, back in civilization after a month on the river: a long text about Anna Karenina . . . he could not stop talking about it; he's completely absorbed in the characters and their situation. "It's a slog," he wrote, "but so worth it." Ah, I have done something right. I have raised a young person who thinks Tolstoy is "so worth it." I hope that makes up for all the dumb stuff I did.