I spent almost all of last weekend cleaning and cutting the apples from our tree
and cooking them and blending them
into a variety of saucesâ€”primarily, apple-grape (grapes off the vine) and apple-onion (sweet little onions from the farmers market). I’ve given some away, we’ve eaten a lot with cornbread and fruit for breakfast, and the rest went into the freezer for a later month.
I’ve eaten bunches of grapes while standing over the sink. I’ve made juice, so sweet we had to temper it with water. The rest I froze with hopes of pulling out in an off-season and remembering the scent of these fruits in the end-of-summer air.
But that’s not all. For days, our kitchen table lay buried in tomatoes. And eggplants. And arugula. And basil.
I’ve made tomato soup and zesty tomato sauce. I’ve parboiled whole tomatoes and frozen them for the future. I’ve eaten more arugula salads than even my green-loving gut prefers (arugula-apple pesto, too).
Roasted, salted, drizzled with olive oil. This house is full of tomatoes.
Last night, we shared a wonderful Thai soup and cornbread (yes!) dinner with friends. We got to talking about markets, and I mentioned I had not visited our local Asian market in quite some time. Why? For weeks now, the story remains the same. After a walk through our backyard, a weekly trip to the farmers market and the grateful acceptance of our friends’ super-juicy homegrown yellow melonsâ€”we need little else in terms of food. This is enough to keep us in the kitchen with a bountiful table.
This is what we’d imagined months ago when we planted. It’s what we’d envisioned two summers ago when we bought this house. The pomegranates are yet to come. And I haven’t even told you about all those onions and herbs….