Those of us with heat pumps save power at this gentle juncture - we need them neither to heat, nor cool.
My kids spend the mild evenings' twilight laughing on their scooters with the neighbours' children, atop the still warm footpath.
These are genuine highlights of the now, and the next few weeks. But, for me, the primary reason for joy is it's the season of fare. If you're a foodie of the forager or fishing persuasion, this is the season that gives.
Hawke Bay's water begins to lift in temperature, which draws normally out-of-reach species a little closer to shore, sometimes close enough for those of us on the beach-based end of a surfcaster. If (unlike me) you're lucky, this can mean whole poached snapper with wine, olive oil and herbs, compared with the singular smoked kahawai item that dominates the colder months of my family's menu.
What else?
Whitebait time their run contemporaneously with the emergence of asparagus. This is a dream pairing on a plate, Mother Nature is a master matcher of nosh. Self-propagated tomatoes pop up (some of ours now fifth generation), basil heads skyward, putting its hand up for pesto with crushed pine nuts and, when said tomatoes ripen, you have another holy marriage.
The red varietals tend to stay cellared, while the whites hit their straps. Stouts remain in the pantry and lagers leap to centre stage.
Enough said.
Last weekend I heard the season's first cicada, which means summer's heat is imminent, temperance almost over. Maybe the ultimate trick is not to cherry pick favourites, but instead, like my father once said, to embrace the seasons as they come.
