IT'S PRETTY CONSISTENT around here: breakfast is a couple of cappuccinos and toast (with a soft-boiled egg on Sunday morning); lunch is peanut butter on toast and, these days, a few pieces of fruit.
This year we're lousy, as Lindsey's father would have said, with fruit. A couple of days ago just the overnight windfalls from the pluot tree gave me enough fruit for a quart of jam. I've picked up perhaps a bushel of apples, destined for applesauce, and the trees are still groaning. These peaches were windfalls; the pluots were picked, but quite a few remain. The red Bartlett pears have all been picked now; I left the windfalls for the foxes and the skunks.
Lindsey brings me a plate of fruit every night while I soak in a hot bath: an apple, a pluot, maybe some peach. A few squares of chocolate. It's a good life.