Late last month and earlier this month, I finished reading two books about the WWII soldiers who tracked artwork stolen by the Nazis. My shorter readings skewed toward those subjects. Repatriation still happens, and women who served in the war have more sunlight shed on their accomplishments, including spy operations. 

Baseball provided a lighter counterpart to the in-depth books, and I finally had a chance to visit the related exhibit at the Library of Congress. Although the docents dressed as ballplayers, I didn't chat with them about bubblegum or baffling batting choices.

Yet neither sports nor art dominated my content stream in September. 

Ok -- that morsel among the feast of daily speech -- carries a fascinating history, and the presidential part of the video explainer prompted me to watch a Seinfeld clip. And delivered this month's theme.

My media consumption spun toward food like a classic, hand-tossed dough.

I found a profile of the chef who leads one my beloved pizza places in DC, and I devoured the science behind several entertaining questions. What if blueberries replaced Earth? Which kitchen appliance wins the primeval battle of fire vs. frost? What lives on cheese?

I expanded my appetite to include two types of apples, both based in technology, and I listened again to one of the most terrific Radiolab episodes, which details how trees diversity their photosynthetic diets. Pay attention for the jaw-dropping reference to a salmon dinner. Follow that with a visual aid for leafy linguistics. 

The end of this month marks a sad occasion, the passing of another summer. Preserving the season has become a rare skill in our digital era. Lack of garden space tops my list of amenities that I miss because I live in a city. Trolling for consolation in desserts led me to the best recipe name I've seen: "Pie for a Suffragist’s Doubting Husband."

Food appears in poetry about as often as it does in a cookbook. One of my favorite poems illuminates peaches, but I also endorse some excellent words on raspberries and the last tomatoes. 

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