Another of the myriad reminders that I am, indeed, now permanently ensconced in a world that was not always my own has been the complete lack of seasonal food changes. A strange topic, I realize. At home, in America, so much of our culture is food-based and centered around meals. For better or worse, this is the truth. And summertime means backyard barbecues, firing up the grill with friends whenever possible, cold drinks, iced tea (sun tea!), a bounty of freshly grown fruits and veggies that can’t be so easily found the rest of the year. Cobblers from all the berries, tomatoes until you swear you couldn’t eat another, but you will, and you do, because you should, and it’s summertime. Corn on the cob. Light and fresh dishes when it’s too hot to possibly spend one second over a hot stove. S’mores over a bonfire. And on and on.
Here, the heat never amounted to much, if you didn’t hear. We’re past the neverending rains of June and July, and the crazy winds too, and things have leveled out to days of mostly sunshine, lots of clouds, and temperatures in the mid to high 60s. Perfectly acceptable. But. It’s officially August and I’ve just come across my first couple ears of corn, which I plan to roast for Jon and I soon. And it got me to thinking, to noticing how monotonous things on the food front get when you can just as willingly eat a hot bowl of chilli in July as December. How there is no awe in strawberries big as golf balls coming back into season, finally cheap and affordable. And how I guess I used to depend on that continuity of movement, that change of seasons, change of palate to let me know that time was moving and changing and returning to what it had once been. That memory is just as much taste and smell as actual thoughts.