This being rural New England in September, I fetched all the produce for this soup from farm stands within miles of where I’m perched. Now it’s simmering on the stove, hopefully to take the edge off this cold, foggy Sunday as I write through feeding the birds with my Daddy in 1978. As of today I’ve written about a quarter of this book, which feels both daunting and impressive. I’ve never run a marathon but I imagine it’s as exhilarating and impossible as this. Thanks goodness everything I’ve foraged, stewed, baked, broiled and simmered here has produced such immediate pleasures. Cooking and writing are such happily codependent activities.