tomato music

A lovely, cool morning. An oatmeal on the porch kind of morning (they wont last!).

An “it’s time to pick more tomatoes morning.”

And it’s time to face the music. I’ve been freezing and cooking and making salads, but Ed keeps warning – this is just the beginning!

What were we thinking? [Easy: a seed is a seed – it looks small and lonely in the dead of winter. We should plant it. And this one and the next.]

I admire the tomatoes, wash them, sort them...

I freeze some more. That’s it. My freezer is full!

You know I have a freezer in the basement.

These lovely tomatoes are allergic to your freezer.

There’s nothing wrong with that freezer!

You’re right. Your freezer's fine. What’s wrong is that you have old bags of ancient foods in there. Scary bags. These tomatoes are too beautiful to share space with them.

Not scary! Just old bags of cooked tomatoes!
Maybe they were, in the past, cooked tomatoes, but they’re from before my time and we’ve been together nearly seven years.

Nearly seven years! My oh my, we're getting’ up there. No wonder there's the occasional ache, the stiffness.

So we bike to Paul’s café. None of this wimpy Honda stuff.

(along the way: Farmer Lee's field)

(speeding down a hill)

 

...futile that it is as Paul's appears to be closed for the holiday week-end, and so we bike to the tennis courts and we put in a good game of me running away from the hard serves Ed's into on this day.

At home, I google local yoga classes over lunch...

(robin outside, looking in)

I’d tried yoga many, many times – alone, with daughter, with Ed, with friends and each time I walked away thinking – my, that was nice, but it went no further. That was then. Time to return to the stretches and the poses. Ed asks -- want to buy a used yoga mat off of Craigs list?

In the evening I make tomato bisque.

 

So, soup tonight and maybe every night henceforth and we’re surely hungry for it after all that biking and avoiding hard serves and the air is still cool and Ed works on replacing the rotted board up on the dormer overhang and I’m thinking – not so terribly old after all. Not him, not me. Not just yet.