​​​​​Summer
 

There is no summer quite like this one.

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It arrives unannounced,

in strawberries that blush at the edge of ripeness,

in corn, still warm from the field,

in tomatoes, heavy, split with sweetness.

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Each one offered as it is.

Nothing concealed. Nothing corrected.

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Beneath it all — rice from upstate New York,

slow, patient, particular to this place.

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There is something distinctly New York in this table:

a directness,

a refusal of waste,

a clarity of purpose.

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And a warmth from further south,

loose, open, unhurried.

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Together, something easy.

Summer food, held lightly.

Just as it should be.