Grey sky finally to counter a week of blue. I know that one should be grateful for blue sky in San Francisco, but all I want is a good rain. I haven't seen rain in months and months; I can't remember the last real rain and I want it. Not the little misty droplets we got here last week, lovely though they were. I want rain, I want a rainstorm, I want thunder and big wind and the vague, thrilling fear that maybe this time it'll wash us all away.

It is harvest time. Most of our produce is coming from Green Gulch these days: piles of perfect apples, pumpkin stew, potatoes in gold and red and purple, salads full of every green a body could think of. I miss cooking, but we are well-fed here, and there is more good food nearby than can be reasonably consumed in a lifetime. Where else but San Francisco could you go to a sushi restaraunt that's playing Minor Threat - that is, until the mariachis come in, and they turn down the music and give you maracas. And the sushi chefs take another shot of sake and sing along.

Today I'm hiking Diablo with Chris, and maybe maybe maybe it'll rain.