A freshly roasted chicken is one of my favorite meals, and last night's version was particularly good because I decided to make biscuits and wild mushroom gravy to go along with it. Instead of rolling and cutting out the biscuits, as I usually do, I made tiny drop biscuits, very light and dumpling-like. As they were baking, I mixed up a batch of gravy from the fresh giblet stock, tossed in a handful of sautéed foraged maitakes, and ladled it over the biscuits and sliced chicken. On the side was a garden tomato and red onion salad. For dessert was homemade vanilla ice cream topped with wild blueberries. It was a memorable meal.

Working in this kitchen gives me such pleasure. It is the best one I have ever cooked in: everything within reach, everything rationally organized, plenty of storage space yet a sense of compactness. It looks small, but it is mighty. Seven years ago T designed this room for me to cook in, and I don't think I've ever had a better love-gift . . . though the desks he's made for me come close. It is something to be the partner of a master carpenter: that's all I can say.

This morning my neighbor and I are headed out on a small island adventure: a ferry ride to Great Diamond Island, a morning walk, and then lunch at the restaurant there. T, who has stuff to do this morning, will take a later ferry and meet us for lunch. I'm looking forward to it--I love boat rides, and have never gotten off at this particular island before. And the weather, though perpetually dry, is lovely for an outing.

This is my last hurrah of summer. Next Saturday I'll be teaching all day. The following week I'll head up to Monson for my first high school session. And the work year piles on.

But these little moments--a perfect meal, late-summer baseball murmuring on the radio, windows open to the mild evening, crickets squeaking in the darkness, the cat threading himself between my ankles, the house around us tidy and lamplit. So unspectacular. So poignant. Just to be happy. It seems so simple. It is not.