Just pulled these out of the top of the potato plants–it will be flank steak, corn on the cob, tomatoes, and new potatoes and peas on Sunday when my brother gathers. Ought to work. I might need a few more, but might fill in with some store bought, let the deeper potatoes perk a while longer. I didn’t get all the higher potatoes yet, for sure.
I didn’t grow peas this year — didn’t have much luck last year — but I think my green beans will be nice soon. And I actually have one zucchini finally! (They were not pollinating, but maybe this means they will grow now–I wasn’t in the mood to play match maker.)
I’ve been editing/writing on my memoir. Here’s a bit:
In the Introduction to my Larousse Gastronomique (which professes itself “the World’s Greatest Culinary Encyclopedia”), it refers to the history of gastronomy as “the story of those who took part in its evolution and [who are] responsible for establishing what is, in effect, one of the cornerstones of civilization. Gastronomy reflects society, and studying [it] provides a glimpse of the history of society itself.” Gastronomy, it goes on to say, “is not static. Like music and the visual arts, it has never ceased to evolve.”
A quote from my memoir. If you don’t have a Larousse and you love to cook, I recommend buying one, though they are pricey. It’s not just recipes, but an encyclopedia on the history of food (and beverages) and cooking. You can sit before a nice fire on a winter’s day with a glass of La Crema chardonnay (or a hot toddy) and read it for entertainment. It’s fascinating.
But working on the memoir and digging spuds out of my garden (along with a few errant weeds) is a reminder of the basics in life. I’ve got dirt under my fingernails and in a small cut on one knuckle, a burn up close to my wrist–these are not the hands of a lady of leisure.
And it’s a reminder that I’m fortunate–unlike Scarlett O’Hara I am harvesting much more than one remaining radish–yet I’m not certain the civil war hasn’t begun. I hear Trump has orchestrated a peace agreement in the middle east–I am not up on the details. I wish he could orchestrate peace here. If this was really about his personality, he could pull it off, but of course, it isn’t. Nor is it about George Floyd. It’s about the new progressive socialist agenda that Trump departed from–one must never cross the left. So the war–such as it is–has already begun. And it’s up to us to resist–and still find a peaceful corner in the world where one can hide on occasion.
So it’s cleaning day–that day always feels good. The illusion of order and the smell of lemon oil and floor cleaner, clean sheets against the backside. Peaceful inside this home and in my garden. Life is pretty peaceful in our small town anyway–the tourist crowd thinning some already– as I see a few maple leaves changed on the new trees the village planted in the front yard.
Where does the time go?
Last night was salmon and corn and broccoli and tomatoes, tonight will be stuffed peppers out of my garden and corn and cucumbers maybe, a little more broccoli to offset the coumadin dose my dad takes–always about a balance.
My husband should make it home Sunday with our new Lance trailer–we traded in an enormous fifth wheel for something more manageable. Wonder if we’ll ever get to travel in it…