May blogging was off with a whimper, probably because my psychic return from New Orleans was slow. There was no fast flawless early spring in the Central Valley this year, and we came back to more rain, wind, and cold. It’s like I was waiting for the sun to shine and the air to warm before I could drift out of my suspended state of Spanish moss and cold oysters, honeysuckle and chicory coffee. But at last—strawberries are in, fava beans and baby artichokes are everywhere, and the first cherries are coming on. It’s the golden season here in Yolo, when the fields are still lush and green (except for the hills) and the mornings are breezy, and the roadsides are lined with fruit stands, and our own cherry tree and the little Blenheim apricot that dangles over the creek begin to tease.

Summer is tumbling in, likely my last one in this lovely spot. I am the type that misses places and people even before they’re gone, and I’m already wistful for my time in Winters and Davis. This is my favorite part of the year here, because it starts to swelter, and because it’s full of things I love that we don’t grow in the Southeast. Late summer crops in California—sweet corn and tomatoes and watermelons and okra—never stack up to what we can grow back home. (Try to argue with me. Soil or sentiment, I will not be moved.) Those are the soul of a Southern summer, just as the shimmering, vital months of cherries and apricots are the essence of  a Yolo springtime.

There is year-round luxury in California for those of us from the other coast: citrus, grapes, spicy olive oil, the sweetest almonds and walnuts. But memory is a mystery. It’s made up of thousands of moments in which the senses were aroused, and that sensory sharpness and the intensity of the feeling that it brought are somehow recovered. Or maybe reconstructed, I’m not sure how it works. I do know I’ll never forget late summer here, with the smell of fires in the hills, and fields of tomato harvesters, and grapes like jewels and five kinds of figs at the farmer’s market. Or three winters of gray and green, surprisingly cold and melancholy, finally breaking into acres of pink almond blossoms and peepers in the creek and an exquisite excess of Meyer lemons. But for the rest of my life, I’m sure that my strongest, most affecting memories of this place will begin with the insane perfume of orange blossoms in April, and span these sweetest months of May and June, and fade with that last luscious apricot tart.

Life rushes by with speed and confusion that pictures and words can never apprehend. But this year, I’m hoping to capture just a little of this shining season to hold on to. I’ll be resuming with a few final shoutouts to New Orleans, as well as notes on some good meals and recent celebrations (and hard goodbyes), the opening of the long-awaited Winters Farmers Market, the continuing Ramos Gin Fizz Improvement Initiative (I’m on to something!) and maybe some baking projects. (Rhubarb custard tarts and various strawberry desserts have gone undocumented. Oh camera habit, when will you come to me? )

On a less poignant note, every year I make myself sick by eating pounds of cherries in one sitting.