The small rectangle of lawn between my office shed and the kitchen door is a lush, nearly iridescent green: a sure sign of a terrible summer. In a good summer the grass is a dull shade of beige, dotted with patches of hard, bare earth. My lettuces would normally have bolted by now. Instead they’re covered in slugs the size of hotdogs.
Out front, the tomatoes are huge and mostly unripe. As the days wear on the fattest and lowest fruit on each vine turns pale orange, then blushing pink. Then, just before it darkens to deep red, I find it on the doorstep with 12 tiny bites taken out of it.
