Most every year since I’ve lived in Turkey, September 1st has brought rain. The most memorable year, sitting with a friend on one of Beyoğlu’s infamous now missing tables, raindrops larger than hailstones dropped singularly into pitchers of beer leaving us lonesome as everyone around deserted their pitch to flee inside from this signal that summer was drawing to a close; a world away in all respects from this summers last shower as the boys and I huddled in the window watching puddles take their shapes on the road. A difference too, this year it wasn’t Istanbul rainfall and a week past September 1st – guess that southeastern bend makes a difference here too. Similar though was the smile on my face, breathing in the now freshened air. Perhaps a touch of nostalgia for “home,” maybe just relief from the heat. Either way. September rains always fill me with gleeful anticipation of the season ahead, of cool before the snows set in. Skimming socked toes in damp grass I immediately think of plates piled lovingly with mushrooms, braised slowly with cream, garlic and tomatoes melting softly into buttery mash, calories no deal breaker now that snug inside jumpers with boots on our feet long walks can replace summers’ lethargic haze. I envisage pyjama days under cushion tent forts and roasted brassicaceae dipped in mustard mayonnaise. Autumn is for lazy morning starts then whole day adventures. It’s about nature in all of its beauty and fish, and food, that’s abundant and fresh. Yesterday, just before rains run the seasons change, we took the boys on one last summer outing, crossing nostalgia’s bridge. And in summers last glaze our old home looked as beautiful as always.