Summer, frankly, is exhausting. Fun, for sure, but tiring. And getting more so with each passing year. That is a factor, but I think mostly I'm looking forward to winter for the food. That, too, I think, is a function of age.
Age brings with it a more discriminating palette.
My dad, who, in his younger days, would eat six burned and butterflied pork chops and half a loaf of bread at a sitting insisted, in older age, on only Lea and Perrins Worcestershire sauce with his oysters Rockefeller. Anyway, I've finally had enough of barbecued this and barbecued that. I've had my fill of yellow, orange, red and green peppers grilled to mush in olive oil on the side burner. I don't care if I ever scrape another fish fillet off the supposedly non-stick grilling surface. As I write this, a pot roast is into its second hour of simmering away in the slow-cooker.