It's one of those summer days that you wish you could somehow preserve a little of for future use. Poured into a Tupperware and stashed in the freezer, or carefully pressed between the pages of a heavy old Riverside Shakespeare or Dickens, on a gray and grim January day in the future, you could then carefully slide your fragile summer day out from between the pages of Little Dorrit's patient fortitude or of Malvolio's downfall, and by blowing upon it, endow it with the warm breezes and long-lighted afternoons fragrant with honeysuckle, citronella, and the smoke of charcoal fires.
I've preserved summer in the form of a couple of dozen jam jars in the basement: the flavor of real strawberries in June tastes like summer to me, and that's the only way I've found to bottle a summer's day. So until I can slide this lazy afternoon out from yellowing pages and blow it full of honey-colored light and the smell of fresh-mown grass, I will have to make do with a batch of biscuits, and a jar of jam, and maybe a few pressed petals, to beat next winter's January blues.
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