I never thought of fig trees in terms of fall colour, until I saw this little tree against a perfectly blue sky last year.
Yellow indeed, and two figs left. I ate one yesterday. It was cold and a little under ripe. Not like summer's honey.
The Abraham Darby has lost almost all of its leaves, but the flowers show no signs of compromise.
The show must go on.
The parsley likes the weather and is putting out new growth. We will eat some tonight in an onion and parsley salad with some buttermilk-battered, fried chicken. I'll let you know how that goes. Vince and I are on our own again: my mom is somewhere above the Atlantic, heading to Dakar on South African Airways, where they will land, sit on the tarmac for an hour and take off again for Johannesburg. Then deplane, and catch another flight to Cape Town. It's a long way.
I have harvested my fennel seeds and know in my heart that I will not eat them. Well...I might. I just remembered slow-roasted shoulder of pork with fennel seeds and garlic and chile and lemon juice.
The calamintha's leaves, such as they are, have turned a beautiful sort of roasted burgundy. Their pepperminty scent is still bitingly fresh.
And a survivor from spring, feeling its oats. Down in South Africa, its nemesia friends are finishing flowering now, in the wild. Another one that likes cool weather.
So the terrace is still there, though neglected of late. Still to come is the turning colour of the Japanese forest grass. For now it remains green.