Baking day. Sixteen pounds of dough for loaves, ditto for rolls, and crust for eight pizzas, means a substantial amount of bread, and should last us about a week and a half. The last of the peaches were picked and frozen, and the garlic we set on screens in the summer kitchen to dry, are being tied in bunches and hung up high under the roof over the stone fireplace where we grill steaks. In the woodshed, the onions from one of the three onion beds are drying on boards set across two sawhorses, four double rows of three-inch bulbs. They will not be dry enough to braid before we harvest the other two onion beds, so we will have to overflow into the garage and dry onions there, too. Food is everywhere; some, like the tomatoes, still growing; some, the late green beans, for instance, just getting their legs under them. A great deal of food is running around in the back pasture, or grunting in the styes under the barn. But the tide is beginning to come in.