Summer

Today the sun was out when I woke up. Yes, I woke up a little late, but that's not the point. The point is that the sun was out. It was actually going to be a proper summer day.

I don't tend to miss the summer all the much, living here in the Bay Area. I mean, I don't miss those hot, humid days that are particular to the East Coast. I don't miss mosquitoes or the smell of freshly cut grass (which will send me into spasms of allergies), or the hell that is seasonal bathing-suit shopping. I never fared well in hot weather. But I do miss those warm summer nights, the kind where you can head out in your shorts and tank top and not have to worry about catching a chill. I do miss the way a scorching day relaxes into a balmy evening, the gathering of a neighborhood crowd at the local ice cream shop, the sight of people lounging on their front stoops. Brooklyn was a great place to while away a summer evening, I'm remembering.

But lately I've also been missing those summer days, because for all our pleasant Bay temperatures, the sun has not been a consistent visitor this season. It can be shocking to note the date, to realize that August has come, summer is nearing its end, and we've scarcely had a taste of it.

So when I woke up this morning it was with real joy that I spotted the sun outside my window.

Walking home from belly dance class at midday, drenched with sweat and looking a mess, I was so pleased to be exactly where I was. There was such a rightness to it, such a simple pleasure in letting the breeze cool my skin and whip my hair into a tangle. I felt like a kid, and not even like the kid I used to be: I was unconcerned with my appearance, pleased to be sweaty, happy with the flip-flopping noise my shoes made on the sidewalk. I stepped on every crunchy-looking leaf I could find.

I was reluctant to go home and shower, since all I wanted to do was air-dry in the sun. But then the thought struck me that it was Tuesday, and I could get some lunch at the farmers market.

I love a good farmers market. And it was such a farmers market type of day! I purposefully put on baggy, wrinkled shorts and an old t-shirt. I wanted nothing but comfort, and though I'm fond of chastising other bikers for not wearing helmets, I left mine at home so I could feel the wind blowing through my hair. (Don't tell anyone.)

I had a taste for grilled corn with chili and lime, but before I bought my lunch I walked the long lane of market wares, searching for the Early Girl dry-farmed tomatoes that I love so much. When I found them I nearly clapped my hands with glee. How had I gone all summer without tasting them?

For someone who doesn't cook often, I choose my produce very seriously. Something about it soothes me, laying my hands on each piece of fruit, squeezing it ever so gently to test for firmness or give, bringing it to my nose to inhale its scent. The tomatoes were little vibrant globes, so brightly red that they fairly shone; they looked as full of promise as they did of flavor. Do you know what I mean? It seemed as though biting into one of those tomatoes would make me feel more alive, somehow.

Tenderly, I placed each chosen tomato into a paper sack. Although my impulse was to buy plenty - last season I used to buy them by the dozens - I thought carefully about what I would actually eat in the next few days and bought a few less than I thought I'd want. I understood that I would appreciate them more that way.

After paying an exorbitant price for my tomatoes (for all its earthy candor, the farmers market is not cheap) I bought two large ears of roasted corn, slicked with lime and sprinkled with sea salt and chili powder. Almost as soon as I'd passed over my money I realized that I didn't really have the appetite for two ears of corn; my eyes were bigger than my stomach. But I ate them anyway, sitting on the sidewalk with my bags spread around me, dropping burnt flecks of corn husk on my bare legs. I ate like a child: noisily, messily, wholeheartedly, and when a bug wandered up my leg I let it wander, rather than brushing it away. I didn't fuss over the grit that landed in my open water bottle, or the drip of sweat that was starting underneath my shirt. I just sat there and enjoyed the sun on my skin, the tingling of my lips from the chili powder, the repetitive song of the nearby guitar player. I just enjoyed eating grilled corn on the cob on a summer afternoon.

I'd brought a magazine, but I didn't bother to read it. Instead I watched the people around me: the young hippie mothers with coiled dreadlocks sharing bits of their surprisingly un-vegetarian lunches with their toddlers; the white-haired man trying to register voters; the woman who'd dressed incorrectly for the weather in winter leggings and an unforgiving long-sleeved turtleneck dress; the grandmother covered in tattoos. I listened to snatches of conversations about babies taking swimming lessons, what fruits were in season and President Obama. And when I'd polished off my corn and one of my precious tomatoes, I wandered down the aisle again, this time with an intent to shop.

I tasted new peaches and pluots, and bought two large nectarines. (The other night Monte and I ate nectarines baked with cinnamon and nutmeg, and I couldn't get enough.) I snapped pictures of sunflowers and bushels of apples, baskets of blueberries. I prodded several avocados before choosing two that were just shy of ripe. I bought a container of tiny, sweet strawberries. I considered a beautiful purple eggplant. I tossed a dollar into the guitar case of an old man playing Motown tunes.

And then I loaded up my bike and set off for home, the wind still playing with my hair.