I remember rain.
Wildfire smoke is pushed by a high-pressure bellows to the east, dispersed again when the wind changes to pull marine flow from the Pacific. The grass crunches underfoot; the hill is a tangled warren of burrs and foxtail, all things sere and seeding. Weary of drought and heat, wonder at the prodigious flooding in the east, scanning the sky for rain before the west is ash and withered bone. The cracks in the earth grow wider.
Birch and locus leaves float on the surface of the scrying bowls clouded with wasps. A fresh pail of water set out on the hillside every day during these three months of drought for birds and wild night creatures is drained or toppled by morning. At first, while a trickle of water remained in the creek, they eschewed the metal bucket. Now they depend upon it.
The garden presses to her longed-for languishment and release. The grapes are ripe. The tomatoes sigh and sag under a harvest of Romas, Brandywines, and Sungolds.
The zucchini, the courgette, the green summer squash the Greeks call kolokithia, now dominates the terraced beds and relentlessly births thick heavy fruit. Somehow, through camouflage or inattention, great squash clubs grow overnight. With their large seeds muffled in pulp, these giants are useful only as filling for nut bread, fritters, muffins, or pita. Shred the flesh against the box grater and squeeze out the water between two cotton kitchen cloths while resolving to pick the smaller squash before they transform.
At least the flesh is mild, versatile, and forgiving–
A zucchini cake filled with crushed pineapple and coconut, finished with a buttermilk glaze; oatmeal muffins studded with blueberries, kolokithia scraped and broiled stuffed with tomatoes, feta, and breadcrumbs; slices layered with potato, onion, and tomatoes, bathed in olive oil and baked into Briam; stewed with fresh bay leaves, eggplant, tomatoes, and olives to eat on crusty bread; sautéed in a frittata sprinkled with goat cheese and topped with yet more tomato.
Hungry for a change of season, I remember rain.
Kim K. McCrea 
I feel your pain and share your pleasure in fortifying water buckets and zucchini recipes. Last night it was zucchini/all manner of pepper/black bean/tomato (…onion, kalamatas, cilantro, etc) enchiladas, a generous fistful of cheese each. I’ll need to bookmark your recipes—and I’m ordering another air filter.
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The enchiladas sound wonderful and that’s something I haven’t made yet with zucchini, thank you for the delicious idea. Let’s dance for rain soon
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These are my favorite posts of yours and was thinking recently how I miss them! So thank you Kim, sumptuous…and funny, now I know all about Briam. Going to make it again, it’s a nice find (like you and your lovely writing). Be well and happy Saturday to you.
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Briam is luscious, so yours must have lived up to expectation, Bill. (Don’t skimp on the olive oil.) My sister is in Athens right now and I admit to envy. I have been remiss in posting here, so thanks for your enjoyment, Bill, which makes it most worthwhile
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That line with warren in it and its usage was my favorite will reread and relish like the Briam, better on the second day…
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The animals that topple over their life-sustaining bucket are an apt metaphor for what we humans do to our world.
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By the way, I’m enjoying Pandora’s Last Gift immensely.
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Thanks for giving it a read, Jeff, glad you’re enjoying the book
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The toppled bucket… I’m glad you are there to refill and set upright. May the rains come…
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It’s been a long long summer
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I lived in Yellowstone the summer it burned in 1988. It was awful. I do hope the rain if snows come to you soon.
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It’s been rainy as can be here in Pennsylvania this year. I wish we could transfer a lot of the rain to the western states.
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Seriously, we’d sure take that extra rain right now
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