Summer Gold

Sometimes I wonder why I'm here in Minneapolis during August. Europeans from almost everywhere in the EU are flocking to Provence in droves for their month-long vacation. It's good to stop and think from time to time why you're doing one thing and not another. The reflection either blasts you out of a worthless rut or affirms and reminds you of the worth of what you're doing.

On a superficial level, the answer to why Minneapolis instead of Provence is easy. In some parts of southern France, it's hard to turn around for all the crowds. But, while Mollans is certainly hopping with Germans, Dutch, British and Belgians right now, it's not such a hot spot as to ever be over-run and not the reason why I'm not there. Rather, the answer to why here is because I love Minnesota in the summer.

Last night, climbing into bed, a cricket's one-note serenade lulled me on towards sleep. Soon he'll be joined by his buddies and a slightly plaintive, softly scratchy chorale will fill each night's air with a hymn to fleeting summer and fall's imminent arrival. Before I'd nodded off, the song changed and the cricket hushed,taken over by tympani crashes of thunder and then the loud plinks of rain against the roof and glass panes. Too tired to shut the windows, I hoped for the best and let the now steady and slightly blurred raindrop rustle pull me into oblivion.

This morning's still dark skies have now transitioned to summer gold as I look out my office window. The play of light on tree limbs laden with happy-to-see-a-little-water-leaves is as spectacular as a painting. Soon, I'll head downstairs and cook up some Minnesota sweet corn, the real gold of the season, both in looks and worth. Slathered with sweet butter from a local creamery once barely cooked, then liberally salted and dripping, there's nothing better. The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of teeth biting into rows on rows of kernels mimics like a base-note refrain the higher-pitched cricket rhythm of the night before.

We're going to have a patch of real summer this week, lots of heat mixed with the thunderstorms and the humidity they leave behind. It will make my other August love grow even better--the tomato. I'm waiting for my coeur de boeuf plant, grown from a French seed, to ripen its fat, heart-shaped fruit. It will be interesting to see if, grown in Minneapolis soil and climate, the tomatoes from this plant will taste the same as those in Mollans. We're already eating the American tomatoes called Big Girls that will come faster and faster with the warmth until I won't be able to keep up. Right now, the round, red globes are just enough to slice and sprinkle with garden basil. I drizzle them with olive oil from Mollans' mill, and dust with a bit of fleur de sel, both brought home in my suitcase for just this occasion. Before I know it, I'll be making gazpacho, we'll be eating BLTs with a side of corn--about the best summer meal in creation--and then I'll need to put the rest up by roasting and freezing for the cold winter months.

A spot of air conditioning helps enormously to break up all the moist heat that's going to be thrown at us and that's one thing--the air conditioning that is--still fairly scarce in our part of France. Provence is no stranger to scorching days and the solution for most is to rely on thick-walled homes and closed shutters during the day. That, unfortunately, creates a bit of a cave-like atmosphere in many homes and seals out the gleamingly glorious light that Van-Gogh and Cezanne loved so well.

By the end of the month, as the vines surrounding our village start drooping from the weight of dusky purple grapes, the weather will lighten and the vacationers will leave. That's when I'll be back to delight in warm days and cooler evenings, windows open and un-shuttered to let in the harvest light followed by the rich dark of rural nights.

In the meantime, I'll listen to my cricket as his night song swells towards autumn and enjoy the golden Minnesota summer while I can.