Hey wild one,

 

For the last week or so, the sky here in northern Indiana has felt... different.

 

Not stormy, or overcast. Just… softened.

 

The sun rises muted behind a veil of haze drifting hundreds of miles from wildfires we'll never see. It's strange to think that smoke from another landscape can change the light in your own.

 

It made me think about how connected everything really is.

 

How seasons don't arrive all at once, but quietly. One afternoon the tomatoes finally ripen. The cicadas seem louder than they were yesterday. The evenings ask for a light sweater. Somewhere, someone you've never met is watching the same hazy sky and thinking about home.

 

Maybe that's why this time of year always feels a little nostalgic to me.

 

Not because summer is ending… it isn't, not yet, but because you can feel time beginning to gather itself. You start noticing things differently, almost instinctively, as if some part of you knows these long evenings won't last forever.

 

I think that's one of the reasons I photograph so much. Not to hold onto moments exactly.

You can't…. 

 

But to remind myself they happened.

 

That there was a July afternoon when the air smelled faintly of rain and woodsmoke. That tomatoes ripened on the vine. That dinner stretched a little longer outside because no one wanted to be the first to go in.

 

Maybe that's all we're really doing. Collecting evidence that we were here. That we noticed.

 

And that this beautiful, ordinary life was enough.

ᚠ From the Wild Table ᚠ

This time of year always has me thinking ahead.

 

The tomatoes are beginning to ripen, cucumbers seem to multiply overnight, and before long the kitchen will be filled with simmering jam, pickles, and jars waiting to line the pantry shelves. If you're hoping to preserve a little of summer, I finally put together my Ultimate Guide to Home Canning & Preserving… everything from water bath canning and pressure canning to freezing, dehydrating, and safe food preservation practices in one place. Whether you're filling your first jar or your hundredth, I hope it becomes a resource you'll return to season after season.

 

And if you're looking for something to throw on the grill while you wait for those tomatoes to ripen, the Grilled Venison Summer Kabobs have become one of my favorite warm-weather dinners. Tender venison, colorful vegetables, a simple marinade, and an evening outside are sometimes all you need.

 

Because the best meals aren't always the fanciest ones.

 

They're the ones that remind us to linger just a little longer around the table.

ᚬ From the Library ᚬ

The older I get, the less interested I am in books that simply scare me. Give me the ones that linger instead.

 

The stories that make familiar places feel just a little unfamiliar. The ones that leave me thinking about them while I'm washing dishes or walking the dogs days later.

I'm currently reading Black Sheep by Rachel Harrison, and The Twisted Ones is next on my nightstand. Judging by what I've heard, it might be exactly the kind of slow, creeping dread I've been looking for.

 

Current Read: Black Sheep by Rachel Harrison

Up Next: The Twisted Ones by T. Kingfisher

Listening: Gathering the Beautifully Ordinary 

ᚱ Wander ᚱ

There are only so many summers.

 

Only so many July afternoons when the cicadas sing so loudly you can barely hear your own thoughts. Only so many evenings when the lake is warm enough to slip into without hesitation, the air smells faintly of sunscreen and pine, and time seems willing to slow down for just a little while.

 

It's easy to spend those days waiting for a bigger adventure.

 

But sometimes the most meaningful places are the ones close enough to visit on an ordinary Tuesday.

 

This week, I'm reminding myself not to overlook the landscapes that have quietly been here all along.

ᛃ Almanac ᛃ

 

• The first tomatoes ripening on the counter.

• Hummingbirds arriving before sunrise.

• Cicadas louder than conversation.

• Wild blackberries beginning to sweeten.

• Long shadows stretching across the yard before anyone is ready for the day to end.

• Thunderheads building by late afternoon.

• The quiet realization that this season won't wait for us.

 

Take the evening walk. Eat the peach. Swim in the lake. Stay outside a little longer. Summer is generous, but it never lingers forever.

Got something to say? Hit reply. Tell me what you're reading, making, planting, photographing, dreaming about, or figuring out. The best part of this little corner of the internet has always been the people in it.

Keep the wild going. Tag me when you're making something beautiful, cooking something delicious, renovating something questionable, or getting lost somewhere worth finding.