The beach reading begins before the beach. Riding to the office on Metro, I whip out Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun and imagine I am in Cortona, Italy. I am buying old linens from a market vendor, haggling with questionable Mussolini-lookalike contractors and whisking up some cold fennel soup.

I laugh to myself as I imagine the title: Under the Suburban Sun. I think about my day, the rush to board the Orange Line, the crammed commute, a quick run through the supermarket on the way home, maneuvering the northern Virginia traffic.

In her book Mayes includes recipes for polenta with sausage and fennel or rabbit with tomatoes and balsamic vinegar. My recipes would include BLTs and fruit. Microwave the bacon. Toast the bread. Slice the tomatoes and cantaloupe. Grab a plate and stroll to the deck.

There is no Lombardy poplar on a Tuscan hillside, no golden shimmer in the air. But the evening sun throws squares of light on the trees, and the begonias and coleus are at their most beguiling. It’s another day in paradise.