Yesterday was mostly taken up by prepping for and then recovering from a long work meeting. It's funny how such things co-opt entire days, but the gathering was useful and difficult and refreshing and encouraging and solved some problems, so onward.

Today I'll get back to editing, try to catch up with email, etc., and then I'll go out to write tonight. It looks like another damp cool day ahead, but I still hope to mow grass and pick cherry tomatoes and whatever blueberries I can. Only a few berries are left to ripen, and I took off the net to share these last ones with the birds. The poor things have been longing for them all season. So far the only things I've put into the freezer are blueberries, wild mushrooms, and a little kale. There will be more greens to come, I think, and maybe eventually I'll have enough cucumbers for pickles, but otherwise this is not a year for winter sustenance. Even the herbs have been slow. I've dried sage, thyme, tarragon, and catnip, but not in quantity. I doubt I'll have enough basil to freeze; I definitely won't have enough parsley or cilantro.

So I'm living in the moment . . . picking tiny harvests of beans and broccoli, cucumbers and tomatoes, and making daily salads with them; julienning tiny kohlrabi and carrots for two servings of slaw. We're eating well. Last night I made a polpettone--an Italian-style stuffed meat roll: ground beef rolled up around a filling of baby kale, walnuts, and parmesan. I step into to the garden at 3 p.m., put my hands on my hips, and ask, "Now, what can I do with this?" Summer kitchen-garden cooking is such fun.

Really, cooking and poem writing are so similar. The raw ingredients appear on the page or the vine. They may be a cornucopia or a few tiny misshapen fruits. Still, they require the same stance, the same question: Hands on hips: "Now, what can I do with this?"