Photo by Nathalie Jordi
The weather in New York has finally changed, for good this time. Some days are still sunny, though they now darken alarmingly fast. But this last weekend, which we'd decided would be the last of the popsicle season, was dismal: rainy and cold.
This means that, for the first time in a summer-long scramble to shorten the yawning divide between supply and demand, we are actually sitting on a fat cache of popsicles and an empty bag of plans for them. It's a new feeling...and man, is it a bummer!
Our pops don't really of themselves have an expiration date, other than the one the sun sets. Our experience has shown that soon as temps dip below 70 degrees, the gene shared by every sweaty punter lining up for a popsicle immediately goes into hiding. Hibernation, I guess. It's as astonishing as it is depressing. Inexplicably, ice cream is exempt from this phenomenon (I just talked to a guy in rural Alaska who's trying to sell me a battery-powered freezer box--he claims that demand for ice cream in Alaska is high as they come. And I believe him.)
There's still a bit of fruit in the farmer's market, but the last 25 pounds of peaches we bought were so mealy they were better off as compost. There seem to be lessons about greed and hubris under every stone I turn these days.