The Green Tomato Saga continues and concludes. This Sunday I cleaned my room which means I looked through my jewellery and thought - ‘surely I used to have more earrings than this?’ or ‘what happened to that ring from [insert rather posh gallery here – back in the days when I could afford such things]?’ and then when youngest was out on a fag break, having a quick squizz at possible places where, had she taken them, I might find them – you know, rolled under the bed, chucked in a bowl with three clips and a used cotton bud, at the bottom of a pencil jar. I didn’t find anything, and so did the only thing I could. Mentally kissed them goodbye, shrugged, and thought – ah well, who cares? I assembled what I could find, cleaned my silver bangles, realised I have more dark glasses than any woman reasonably should, vacuumed the carpet, carried all my clothes into the little boxroom I use as a wardrobe, dropped them in a pile the size of the Matterhorn for a later sift and sort, and changed the sheets. Bedroom - cleaned. Box room – not so much.
I then turned my attention to the garden. The apple tree had yielded its crop, much of it to the ground, where the ants, mice and squirrels were enjoying the harvest. The rest was sitting on the kitchen table like it had been styled for Country Living – the orchards edition, awaiting the pot. In it went in two huge batches – one for pie filling and ice cream making, and the other for membrillo. This year I decided to make basil apple membrillo but after the pot had spat at me for an hour and the damn stuff still wasn’t jelling – it takes two or three - I gave up. I’ll freeze it for now and perhaps resume it later, with the clothes sifting... Next, with the last of the green tomatoes and the fountains of basil, I made green tomato pasta sauce and – I have to say myself since nobody else tasted it – it is delicious, frozen into its neat little boxes: Green Tomato Sauce, Apple Pie Filling, Apple and Mint Syrup, Apple and Grenadine Granita and Apple Ginger and Basil ice cream - I now survey the freezer with the satisfaction of a pioneer woman looking at her root cellar. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d bought that orange Prada bag at last week’s antique textile fair. I mean, I don’t need another handbag that one of my kids will purloin. There’s just something so emotionally pleasing about cooking something you’ve grown yourself and putting it ‘up’ to enjoy later. Well, there is as long as it’s a now and again hobby and not a chore you have to do in order not to starve.
The next task is to pick all the herbs and dry them with massive amounts of Basil puree. But first it’s New York, and the ‘Brazilian Carnival’ birthday party for which I bought an amazing Morticia Adams vintage dress which, when I modeled it for the youngest, drew the comment: ‘ohmygod, you look like a ho’. I couldn’t get it off fast enough and am now looking for an alternative. ‘But I meant it in a good way,’ she said when she realised I wasn’t going to wear it.
Is there a good way to look like a whore, I wonder?
After the party, I'll report back. Leaving as a virgin, upper class (certainly not a whore when I fly, darling) on Thursday...
In the meantime, the v. last picture of tomatoes. Thank god I don't have to get through a harsh winter on the Prairie on this meagre crop... Though it was a v. large basket
I then turned my attention to the garden. The apple tree had yielded its crop, much of it to the ground, where the ants, mice and squirrels were enjoying the harvest. The rest was sitting on the kitchen table like it had been styled for Country Living – the orchards edition, awaiting the pot. In it went in two huge batches – one for pie filling and ice cream making, and the other for membrillo. This year I decided to make basil apple membrillo but after the pot had spat at me for an hour and the damn stuff still wasn’t jelling – it takes two or three - I gave up. I’ll freeze it for now and perhaps resume it later, with the clothes sifting... Next, with the last of the green tomatoes and the fountains of basil, I made green tomato pasta sauce and – I have to say myself since nobody else tasted it – it is delicious, frozen into its neat little boxes: Green Tomato Sauce, Apple Pie Filling, Apple and Mint Syrup, Apple and Grenadine Granita and Apple Ginger and Basil ice cream - I now survey the freezer with the satisfaction of a pioneer woman looking at her root cellar. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d bought that orange Prada bag at last week’s antique textile fair. I mean, I don’t need another handbag that one of my kids will purloin. There’s just something so emotionally pleasing about cooking something you’ve grown yourself and putting it ‘up’ to enjoy later. Well, there is as long as it’s a now and again hobby and not a chore you have to do in order not to starve.
The next task is to pick all the herbs and dry them with massive amounts of Basil puree. But first it’s New York, and the ‘Brazilian Carnival’ birthday party for which I bought an amazing Morticia Adams vintage dress which, when I modeled it for the youngest, drew the comment: ‘ohmygod, you look like a ho’. I couldn’t get it off fast enough and am now looking for an alternative. ‘But I meant it in a good way,’ she said when she realised I wasn’t going to wear it.
Is there a good way to look like a whore, I wonder?
After the party, I'll report back. Leaving as a virgin, upper class (certainly not a whore when I fly, darling) on Thursday...
