Such a week! From car, to roof, to the kitchen counter. I've shifted from scrubbing and wiping, to prepping and cooking.
It's a stormy morning and yes, you have to be happy with the rain. We were bone-dry out there in the flower beds, meadows, fields of corn and prairie.
My morning walk up and down the farmette path was quick.
Our breakfast was with the rumble of distant thunder.
Then came the tomatoes: many, many pounds of Romas, which we purchased from our CSA farmer to supplement our own crop of mixed varieties.
I don't do what most cooks prefer to do to preserve them: I don't cook up a marinara sauce. I just wash them, trim them, bag them, and freeze them. For our chili meals, this works well. Still, even this simple storage solution takes time. And immediately after, I shift to cooking Sunday dinner. Oh, it's not the usual farmhouse celebration of the end of the weekend, of family, of food eaten with those you love. It's me fixing some family favorites and taking them over to the young family, for their own evening meal.
We do score one lucky break: the storms recede and we have a bit of warm air, so that we can spend a few minutes sort of together, outside. It's an intense set of minutes. So happy to see them...
But I can't stay, and it is Sunday, and it is all just so unlike every other Sunday, and Sparrow just doesn't get the social distancing requirement. Still, I get to stand my distance and see them and man oh man, I'll take that bit of wonderfulness!
I leave them to their meal and return to eat with Ed. Same meal, played out in two different homes.
Evening: so cool, so suddenly! But of course, it's as it should be: a night chill, a cover over the lap on the couch, maybe a candle, just for the comfort of a twinkle in the room. A glass of wine -- white, from Italy today -- and popcorn.
And here's a grandmother's lament: I sent a note in the mail to Snowdrop and Sparrow last Wednesday (morning). Right into the hands of the mailman it went. Obviously we live very close to these kids, but it was a way to preserve some continuity in our contact with each other. So in case you're one of those skeptics about emergent problems with mail deliveries, guess how long it took for said note to reach them? Answer: well, I couldn't tell you, because they're still waiting.
It's a stormy morning and yes, you have to be happy with the rain. We were bone-dry out there in the flower beds, meadows, fields of corn and prairie.
My morning walk up and down the farmette path was quick.
Our breakfast was with the rumble of distant thunder.
Then came the tomatoes: many, many pounds of Romas, which we purchased from our CSA farmer to supplement our own crop of mixed varieties.
I don't do what most cooks prefer to do to preserve them: I don't cook up a marinara sauce. I just wash them, trim them, bag them, and freeze them. For our chili meals, this works well. Still, even this simple storage solution takes time. And immediately after, I shift to cooking Sunday dinner. Oh, it's not the usual farmhouse celebration of the end of the weekend, of family, of food eaten with those you love. It's me fixing some family favorites and taking them over to the young family, for their own evening meal.
We do score one lucky break: the storms recede and we have a bit of warm air, so that we can spend a few minutes sort of together, outside. It's an intense set of minutes. So happy to see them...
But I can't stay, and it is Sunday, and it is all just so unlike every other Sunday, and Sparrow just doesn't get the social distancing requirement. Still, I get to stand my distance and see them and man oh man, I'll take that bit of wonderfulness!
I leave them to their meal and return to eat with Ed. Same meal, played out in two different homes.
Evening: so cool, so suddenly! But of course, it's as it should be: a night chill, a cover over the lap on the couch, maybe a candle, just for the comfort of a twinkle in the room. A glass of wine -- white, from Italy today -- and popcorn.
And here's a grandmother's lament: I sent a note in the mail to Snowdrop and Sparrow last Wednesday (morning). Right into the hands of the mailman it went. Obviously we live very close to these kids, but it was a way to preserve some continuity in our contact with each other. So in case you're one of those skeptics about emergent problems with mail deliveries, guess how long it took for said note to reach them? Answer: well, I couldn't tell you, because they're still waiting.
