June 08 2008, 09:50 PM Heat

Summer has descended with a snarling, heavy ferocity. By day, it has been by turns photo-bright outside, light fit for surgeries, then mellowing into a numb shimmer whenever a helpful cloud steers itself in front of the sun. The nights become desperate, nervous, struggling, the air too close until the breezes chase it away, or the air conditioners exact their noisy, mercenary release.

(So far, the air conditioner is yet idle.)

If not done with careful attention to local conditions, tending to the greenery can be a punishment. I have spend spending only slices of the days out in the beds and plots, keeping the shrubs and grasses in check. The seedling rig in the cellar is off and dismantled; the pots have a better home on the porch now, and it is easier to keep up with the rigor of water. The Aneheims look strong, and there are several paste tomato seedlings that might like to jump to larger containers soon. The squashes and melons are beginning to find their feet out in the beds, and I have managed to take nearly a meal of peas. New in the ground are sweet potato plants, and I've no idea how they will like their bit of the earth, but we each will see, we each will see.

There are better ways to do batter with the heat; I have found two of note that involve fruit.

One is simply that: fruit. It is the season for this now. Cherries and plums are appearing in the markets, heavy with sweetness and easy to eat by the handful, hucking the seeds out over the porch railing into the shady depths of the boxwood. There are grapes, too, eaten from a cold glass bowl, a shallow pool of water at the bottom to pull heat from the tips of fingers. It seems that grapes are ever in season, these days, but the ones in the market now are a little more honest. The strawberries are coming in waves; any given evening I can scrounge in the long grasses and the feverfew, rooting careful for the bits of deep red hidden there, little fragile berries warm and bursting with sweetness and perfume. Some nights they go under sugar (I need to buy more sugar), then over ice cream or yogurt; some nights they are eaten right there on the hot steps of the front porch. I will buy heavy cream both for biscuits and topping, too, and before long I will sit with a proper dessert before me.

The other find is a bottle of mulberry syrup, pulled from the shelves of a shop stall resonating with the Levant. I had seen it before, but kept forgetting to purchase one - this time, I managed to carry, pay, and take it home. The ingredients list is simple: mulberry juice, sugar. The preparation is simple, too: put a touch of syrup in the bottom of a glass, then fill the glass with cold, cold water. If poured from sufficient height, the drink will not even require a spoon. Take the glass to a comfortable chair, and be still; it is quite refreshing, and makes a happy close for the evening, warding away the press of the night air.

Our hands found each other's on the table, somehow; one of mine in hers, one of hers in mine. I said to her: "I do not want to stop talking to you. I do not want to stop listening to you. Your body makes my body sing." It was surprisingly easy to say.

The twilight was rich with indigo tonight, birds falling quiet as it deepened. Bats rule the airspace over the gardens, now, taking over where the birds left off to pluck lunch from the air with harrowing turns, leaving behind only mad flutter. Porch chimes shrug and shake distant in the breezes, and the maples make soft noises as the thick leaves shuffle and touch.

Rest. There will be more tomorrow.