<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>Summer on Sunday Evening Review</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/tags/summer/</link><description>Recent content in Summer on Sunday Evening Review</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Wed, 29 Apr 2026 10:00:00 -0500</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://sundayeveningreview.com/tags/summer/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>The Long Table #6: First of the Season</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/living/the-long-table-first-of-the-season/</link><pubDate>Wed, 29 Apr 2026 10:00:00 -0500</pubDate><guid>https://sundayeveningreview.com/living/the-long-table-first-of-the-season/</guid><description>&lt;p>The woman next to me at the market picked one up and smelled it before she bought anything. She didn&amp;rsquo;t look around to see if anyone was watching. She just picked a strawberry out of the flat, held it close to her nose, and closed her eyes for about two seconds. Then she bought a quart. I thought: yes. That&amp;rsquo;s exactly right.&lt;/p>
&lt;p>It was the last Saturday of May. The Yellow Springs Farmers Market was full in the way it gets when the season has truly turned, when the tables have more on them than the vendors can spread out neatly and people are walking slower because there&amp;rsquo;s too much to look at. The lettuce has been in for weeks now. The radishes. The first sugar snap peas. But what I&amp;rsquo;d come for, what I come for every year at the end of May, was on Karen Metcalf&amp;rsquo;s table in shallow cardboard flats: strawberries, small and red all the way through, picked that morning.&lt;/p></description></item></channel></rss>