The end of shucking summer

With the close of August comes the end of summer. This we know. In France, the seasonal sunset is marked by the Parisian flock returning to its nest from its August-long holiday migration. The weather, cool all summer, is unchanging, so marks little, but the other signs are unmistakable: the streets filling with traffic, again, and the bistros reopening. These signs bring with them the pain of knowing that autumn is pressing upon us, with winter cresting a hill just within sight, but it is not without its small consolations. One friend, just returned from Brittany, yesterday, shoved a couple dozen oysters into my hands. Otherwise, far more than he could eat. So, Flame-Haired Angel and I sat down to oysters and Champagne, and laughed at what a grubby dinner we made of it, shucking the shells into plastic bags and dripping Finistere seawater across our laps.