WEST BRATTLEBORO — The chanterelles are late this year, and they are small. But, oh, man - the flavor. As I sit here eating a spoonful of these delicate apricot-y fungal morsels, I think about summer in Vermont and how fleeting each new ripening is.
One can tell the time of the year in Vermont - almost to the day, mostly to the week, and certainly to the month - by what is at the peak of ripeness.
As the snow thaws, spring begins in the woods, with wild leeks and fiddleheads, dandelions and sweet nettles. Then comes the spring greens for those wise greenhouse growers, featuring kale flowers and mesclun mix.
Asparagus is Vermont's official declaration of spring. Soon thereafter, June explodes with rhubarb and strawberries. We start to gather the curls and flowers of the garden - garlic scapes, nasturtiums, tender lettuce leaves, and late spring's fantastic sweet glory, sugar snap peas! In the woods, you'll find horsetail and yellow dock for tea time.
Here it is July, and the softest blush of raspberries begins as the strawberries sing their swan song. Herbs give a holler; basil is beginning to play with beloved herbs, cilantro and parsley. The peas bow out as beans chime in.
Greens are up and running: kale, chard, collards, and now... tomatoes begin their burgeoning, green and assertive. They know their day will come soon. In the woods, I gather red clover, mint, and raspberry leaves for iced tea.
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One of the best things about Vermont is the fleetingness of it. Every week a new bounty is brought forth and every week, the previous bounty dies.
It's hard to write this in July, knowing you'll read this in August. What bounty will have come and passed?
We've been eating berries for some time now: raspberries, blueberries, and even currants. Blackberries are heading out. And, in a month from now? Well, you can bet that the gardens are spilling forth their goodies: zucchini and summer squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs, and more greens.
It's hard to believe that, by the time you read this, you might even find a Paula Red at one of our farm stands. This is tremendously difficult to fathom, here in the throes of July. A ripe apple? (Are you serious? From all those tiny crab-apple-y looking things out there?) And if I hadn't witnessed with my own eyes that corn and pumpkins grow, you couldn't convince me that they actually appear on those innocent little July plants.
On July 7, I discovered that an unusual houseplant had bloomed for the first time. A night-blooming cereus sent its flower out of the side of a leaf. It sent out a large shoot, which ended with a unique, alien-looking flower surrounded by pink, veiny tendrils. Cage-like, they wrapped the delicate white papery petals. The flower emitted a soft jasmine scent that oddly filled the room.
One flower. One night. One room.
Sometimes, our fragile bounty lasts only one day. Like the broiler chickens grown for the slaughter, there is the best day for the harvest. An apple has its best day, and certainly berries have their day of perfection.
To be a Vermonter, one has to be attentive and prepared and grateful. One has to love change and appreciate the fleeting moment. Even death doesn't last in Vermont. As soon as death dies, there melts the snow and with it, sap starts to flow.
Enjoy this height of summer, but don't blink. Notice the tiniest hint of cool air at night? Look around. You see the subtle tinges of yellow or pink in the leaves? By the time you read this, it'll be gone.
I can't wait for that first apple.