Saison – Texas in June

There is a particular light in Texas in June that disappears by August.

June light is forgiving. It spills across kitchen counters at 7:45 in the evening and catches the condensation on a glass of iced tea. It hangs in pecan trees longer than it should. It turns the peaches at the bottom of the grocery bag into still lifes.

By August, the light feels sharper. Demanding. Like it’s pressing against the windows.

But June still feels like an invitation.

This is the month of basil plants growing faster than anyone can reasonably use them. Of tomatoes that taste almost too beautiful to slice, and so you do it slowly, standing at the counter, eating one piece before the rest make it to the plate. Of thunderstorms that arrive theatrical and unapologetic, the kind that stop conversations mid-sentence and make everyone walk to the nearest window.

The smell afterward – sunscreen, wet asphalt, and something green – is one of those things you’d recognize instantly even without a name for it.

June makes me think about France sometimes.

Not because they are the same places. They aren’t.

But both understand something about seasonality and attention. The habit of allowing a season to fully arrive before rushing past it. The belief that attention is its own form of luxury. That slicing a peach over the sink is not a small thing.

Both cultures understand something about the ritual of eating what is here, now, while it still tastes like itself.

Texas watermelon eaten standing over the sink. A French tomato salad made with nothing but good olive oil and salt.

Different tables, same instinct.

June in Texas is abundance before survival mode.

By August, it gets combative. The heat stops being atmospheric and starts being personal. You stop noticing things and start just getting through them.

But June is still generous. The grocery stores overflow with produce that actually tastes alive, not to mention the farmers’ markets if you have one near you. Golden hour lasts so long it becomes almost unreasonable. Children are still optimistic about summer. The cicadas start at dusk, right on time, every night, like something you forgot you’d been waiting for all year.

Right now, on my counter:

A bowl of cold cherries. Peaches that need to be used by tomorrow. Basil in a glass of water because it’s the only way to keep up with it. A linen dish towel that’s been damp since Tuesday.

The ceiling fan is on. The dog is underneath it.

This week, I’m cooking with whatever is most beautiful at the market – a loose policy that June makes very easy to follow.

The best way to survive a Texas summer is to begin by honoring June properly.

To notice the light before it hardens. To eat the peaches while they’re still good. To stand on the porch after the storm and just let the smell of it happen to you.

June asks to be lived with, not managed.

It is brief, and it is soft, and it is, right now, exactly enough.

♥︎ Heather