every tomato...

...Yes, every tomato has a spot on this planet. But should every tomato have a spot in your kitchen? 

I have been working through the buckets of tomatoes we had picked last Saturday and it's clear that Ed's bucket has a mixture of fruit. Mine are more uniform: all shiny red, unscathed, untarnished. Many of his have, well, flaws. I'd encouraged him to concentrate on picking perfect ones. That's why you do u-picks, so that you can control the caliber of produce you bring home. You get to decide! There were plenty of perfect tomatoes, let's pick those!

This isn't Ed's way of thinking. Bad tomatoes aren't really bad, they just have some bumps and bruises that don't really ruin the flavor. Besides, you can always cut off the parts that you feel are beyond acceptable. I protested: there are plenty of tomatoes that are great! Just leave the flawed ones behind.

He didn't leave the flawed ones behind and today I attacked his pile and thought about who made the right choice here. My bags are bursting with perfect fruits. The flawed ones I left behind are probably being composted. Or picked by the farmers. Or donated to kitchens. What's wrong with that? The point is, his pick or my pick only shuffle the load a bit. In the end, all tomatoes meet a certain fate: on someone's plate or in the compost pile. We can't change that fate: we play only a tiny role in the whole chain of tomato outcomes.

The moral of the story? Do not take Ed to u-picks if you want your freezer load to be larger than your composted trimmings.

All this processing of tomatoes takes place in the late morning, after I'd done my bit for the animals, after I'd weeded the next several square feet of garden space. 

And after breakfast.

By the time I finished, the clock ticked forward and it was time to pick up Snowdrop.

And here's the thing about throwing things in the compost pile: if it has seeds, they may sprout. Snowdrop discovers that some squash seed, tossed carelessly into the pile, sprouted a very impressive squash vine. Snowdrop is thrilled: we have our own pumpkin patch!

Which reminds her of pumpkin pie, which reminds her that she is hungry. I think today she broke all records in fruit consumption. Peach, strawberries, mango. A few very old cherries. An orange and many, many slices of watermelon. 

It's impressive what kids can eat at one sitting.

Come to think of it, I should have offered her a tomato. A fruit, after all! 

(Driving home: gaga, what are "dramatic clouds?"  These!)

(The boys, waiting at home...)

Supper at the farmhouse: I cook up a veggie soup. With tomatoes.

rain

Okay, we are good. Plenty of rain in our measuring cup. You can stop now. What? Another day of it? Well okay. I suppose I should be glad we are not up north, sitting in a cabin wondering when we can finally go outside.

Here, at the farmette, I go out outside in between showers. It's cool, it's fragrant and very autumnal!

(the last wet lily standing...)

(the farmhouse)

Ed is solidly asleep all morning. I don't bother waking him. I understand the rainy day sleepies. Breakfast is, therefore, alone and in the kitchen.

And then I take myself to northeast England. I'd spent some time there, back in 2014. (I can't believe it was that long ago!) It was one of those solitary trips that wasn't exactly easy. The town I stayed in was fantastic to walk through with a camera and the people I met were wonderful, but that corner of England is rugged and tough and I do think the stories I've retained from there are better upon the retell. Exploring the area alone, in often poor weather was challenging, even as the memories are all stellar. I'd learned a lot about a corner of England that is so often ignored by those who live in the south and those who travel to that country as tourists.

Today's "trip" was only through the Vera Stanhope mystery books I've been so hooked on all summer. They take place in those gritty coastal towns of northeast England and I recognize the rows of darkened stone houses and shops trying to stay afloat next to boarded up storefronts. And I wonder -- will I ever go back? Ride the trains that zip me from the Lake District to the North Sea and then maybe up to Scotland? Like I did back in 2014? It seems so impossible now! The grandkids need me, the virus shows no signs of backing off, trains, planes and buses are yesterday's dream and today's nightmare. How will I ever make it to these trickier destinations again?

That's tomorrow's worry. Right now I'm lost in my novels, with occasional peeks at my posts from Berwick-upon-Tweed. For the images. And the memories.

 

And then I snap back to where I am right now: preparing dinner for Ed and me, and picking up a sweet FaceTime call from Primrose...

... and toward the tail end of the day, getting a report on the two other school kids in my life. All are well, all are happy and isn't that just the nicest way to end the day...

sleepy

Why do eyes want to default to the closed position during gray and drizzly days? I'm sleepy at wake up time, I'm sleepy in the afternoon. The cheepers are let out late today. The door had gotten stuck shut, sort of like my eyes earlier this morning, and I did not come out to check on them until what must have been way past their breakfast time.

Our breakfast, too, is late. And it isn't that pleasant. Dance had come in to join us on the porch. She'd brought her own meal -- a chipmunk -- and proceeded to tear it apart to the side of the table. It a little bit took the appetite away to watch her do this. We came up with excuses to end the meal quickly.

I weeded a little and yawned a lot. The bugs were out and I stepped on an ant hill and so the idea of spending a productive set of hours outside dwindled and fizzled and finally I gave up on weeding and came inside. 

I may have given in to a nap, but I have all these tomatoes to scrub, trim and freeze. I have to say, it's a lot more fun to pick them out in the open fields than to stand over the kitchen sink and attend to them there. We overdid the picking. We haven't the room for them in the freezer chest (see yesterday's post) and I'm left wondering if we should eat tomato everything for the next three weeks, or if I should cook them down to a sauce, or if I should once again empty out the freezer and insist on some kind of new order, where nothing that stays in it is more than ten years old.

Never mind, I'll attend to the rest of the tomatoes tomorrow. Today, I have a dinner to prepare. First though, a cup of coffee!

The young family comes and I suspect it may rain and so we eat in the kitchen. 

 

 

Minutes before they came, I learned that it is grandparents' day today. I told the kids they have to let me take a good photo of them. They gave me many. I like this one -- Snowdrop is holding a book she wrote, Sparrow has his default expression -- a face full of giggles and laughter.

"Hey, what about me?? I can laugh!"

After dinner unwind....

So the dishes are put away, Ed and I watched the last (terrible) episode of a (wonderful) series we'd picked up on Netflix and I have finally the freedom to indulge those sleepy eyes.

Except --- I'm not sleepy anymore!

Go figure.

what goes in must come out

When I moved into the farmhouse now more than ten years ago, it was empty. Ed had been living in the sheep shed. I brought in my own furniture, though with a few exceptions. The washer and dryer in the basement were his. A table in the kitchen was his gift to this place. And there was a freezer chest. We put it in the basement. I didn't think much about it until I started freezing tomatoes.

I noticed that there was stuff already in the freezer. Baggies of unidentifiable stuff. Berries? Tomatoes? Mush? And he added stuff. Those left over rolls from the wedding dinner? Into a bag and into the freezer. The turkey rib cage from some Thanksgiving dinner? Frozen and saved. And soon forgotten. That was the problem: what went in, stayed there.

A few of years ago, I announced a freezer cleaning day. I needed space for the tomatoes. And for other produce that I was beginning to freeze. Corn. Rhubarb. All used by me come winter. 

That cleaning day was a bust. We emptied almost nothing. And so I put in a piece of cardboard, giving over a third of freezer space for his ancient stuff. The rest I used for all those foods that are actually in circulation here at the farmhouse.

Well that was fine until today.

Our CSA farmers announced (for members only) a u-pick roma tomato day today. Superb prices, exceptionally good tomatoes. Sure, I'd already stocked up some for the winter, but we could use more. Winter chilies are so good! So we signed up.

 

It's a warm morning and we surely will have a very warm day. I move quickly through my morning chores.

(It's the time of the year when you really celebrate the annuals in the tubs!)

Breakfast.

And we are off! We have to first pick up market produce. Mushrooms, carrots, flowers, cheese curds. And now we're heading south. 

It's a pretty drive to Tipi organic produce farm! I'd been there picking strawberries in June. I like the way these guys farm and I love their CSA boxes. 

And, it turns out I really like their tomatoes. Ed and I set to work and we cannot stop. Pounds and pounds, buckets and buckets of plump, sweet smelling tomatoes.

(With Steve, the copartner of Tipi)

We will be in tomato heaven all winter long!

 

Except -- where do we store them? In the freezer that's already nearly full? I need his third of freezer space! Down we go to sort through freezer stuff once again. Out come the same packets of ancient berries or are they baby tomatoes? Who knows. Some have dates. I see 2007 written on the bag. The turkey carcass -- I wonder which Thanksgiving that belongs too... Haven't we had this conversation already? 

I should not have asked. I should have dumped it all into Ed's newly expanded compost space. Here, this one, with dirt moved out and logs from fallen tree neatly stacked.

So don't tell anyone, but I managed to hide one of the bags of turkey bones. Out it will go with this week's garbage. The rest? Well, he now has a sixth of the freezer for all his old junk. We are making progress!

flexibility

To be able to roll with the punches is a skill. And the parents of my grandkids would love to help their children develop that skill. If you are resilient you wont bat an eye when something goes wrong or if you don't get what you expect. You don't complain, you don't gripe. I'm really supportive of this idea of staying flexible and finding the good in even poor outcomes. Really supportive. And of course, the way to instill something in kids is to model it yourself.

So today, I cancelled the up north cabin reservation and put aside thoughts of how beautiful it would be to witness a sunset on the lake each evening. Instead, I said to Ed -- let's do a sunset picnic tonight. Immediately he jumped on board. How about we take some food to Observatory Hill, over by Paoli?

It's a sweet and special spot: when he and I were just beginning our life together, way back in 2005, he took me on a first motorcycle ride there, just because he thought the views were so beautiful. It's about as romantic as the guy gets. So yes, a new plan is hatched. A picnic it shall be.

Earlier, I thought about a cafe breakfast -- something that I consider to be an exquisite part of being away. Couldn't I do something that's not oatmeal here as well? How about whipping up some of our very favorite best ever blueberry muffins for breakfast?

It's a sparkling day outside. Sunshine, a breeze, warm but not hot. 

 

 

 

Perfect late summer or early fall weather. 

 

 

 

I don't weed because I have some catch up work to do on the computer (so on the porch). No matter. I'm due for plenty of movement this afternoon. A second set of grandparents is coming up for a visit with the grandkids and so instead of bringing Snowdrop to the farmette, I am to deposit her at her own house. Now this is actually brilliant because the girl has wanted to try being one of the after school walkers instead of car-pickup-ers. It's a different exit door and one of her friends comes out there and she's curious about how it all works. 

The walk from school to her house is long: more than half an hour, and that's at an adult pace. I suggested we speed it up some by me bringing her scooter. I packed the scooter and helmet into the car Thursday and today she can scoot home!

Famous last words. 

I thought I'd park somewhere at the half point, but, there was an accident and therefore a traffic jam on the highway and so I got there just before the school doors were opened. So I parked the car just a five minute stroll from school.

And there I was, with the pick up parents and there she was, running out those special doors.  

Freedom!

Snowdrop is super hungry after school and so I'd brought a blueberry muffin and a Door County peach. She wanted to pause for it ASAP. We did.

Revived, she trotted alongside me until we reached the car. With the scooter. The wrong scooter. Sparrow's scooter. I did think it was a little short but who am I to judge...

Looking on the bright side, the girl got to exit through the exciting "first grade walkers" school door and we had a picnic. 

We drove to her house and she took out the real scooter and proceeded to do a half dozen downhill scoots near her house, terrifying this grandma, but only just a little. After all, she was wearing a helmet. (Expression she makes when she gets awfully close to the tree down the hill...)

(Back at the farmette -- the beautiful late afternoon light...)

And in the evening, Ed and I drove to our local taqueria (Tapatios Cocina Mexicana) where we picked up our picnic supper, to eat on Observatory Hill. 

(Along the road to it, the beautiful landscape that we know and love. The mists aren't swirling around a lake, but they are swirling, deep in the farm valleys...)

 

 

It was a magnificent evening and we weren't the only ones there.

We were both students at UW and we took ballroom dancing. Twenty years ago. We try to do this every night...

Sunsets... Alfalfa fields on one side, soy fields on the other. Small farms dotting the landscape. A sliver of a moon. Is this less romantic than a lake sunset? 

No, it is not. Is the moon rising high any less beautiful here, as seen on Observatory Hill? No it is not.

Yeah, I found my thrill, on Observatory Hill,

On Observatory Hill,

When I found you.

The moon stood still

On Observatory Hill

And lingered until 

My dream came true...

Thursday

There are just too many weeds in this world.

And they are everywhere.

And I cannot stay on top of them: they grow fast, they reseed, they develop dense root systems.

If I ever give up on gardening it will be because of the weeds.

These were my thoughts during the morning walk to feed the animals. I had worked hard yesterday, but the fact is, I am not starved for outdoor work time in early September. I am more starved for exploring new places and for thinking up new winter projects. I don't really want to weed my way through the fall months. Dig, pull, toss. Dig, pull, toss. To clear a bed that in a few weeks will be green with invasives all over again.

A visiting friend said to me this summer -- your flower fields are too work intensive. Ever think of planting bushes and grasses instead of flowers?

I shrugged off her comments then. There goes someone who does not love flowers as much as I do! And the work? It's good for me.

In September, I'm thinking she has a point.

(Cat, hiding. I don't know why.)

 

 

 

Breakfast.

I don't immediately return to weeding. I go on line and shop for bulbs. Typically, I don't get to this until October, by which time all new and interesting things are sold out. Today, I am looking for excuses not to weed. So I buy funky daffodils and tulips and hyacinths and crocuses. Stuff that rolls out the spring season here, at the farmette. Perhaps the most beautiful of all the seasons here, though I shake off the idea that I should have favorites.

 

More weeding. 

 

And then I am relieved to see that it's time to pick up Snowdrop. (Yes, I bought some more snowdrop bulbs as well. I'm looking forward to March already! The weeds are less well established then. Are we nearing spring yet??)

 

 

 

 

 

Snowdrop is in great spirits lately. She has had stellar moments at school, at the farmette, and at home. When you are six, the days unfold before you like a never ending storybook. You do not plan for tomorrow or the next day. You roll with the tide and you try to squeeze in as many of your favorite play sessions as you can, in between the impositions of school lessons, mealtimes and bedtimes. When you are sixty-eight, you have far greater control and oversight. If your day doesn't fall into place neatly, it is your fault. If you find yourself obsessing about weeds, you have no one to blame but yourself.

(At home, the brothers.)

Evening. Have you noticed how much earlier the sun is setting? How pretty a September night is? I go out for a walk across the farmette lands and take in the sweet smell of early autumn. No need to worry about working the garden now. Look up, examine the skyscape, listen to the sounds of night. Cicadas, froggies, a dog or coyote somewhere in the distance, and even farther, the muffled sound of the city of Madison.

It's a beautiful time of the year after all. I suppose the trick is not to worry about imperfections but to take it all in as if you were just six, trying to fit in your play sessions even as you push yourself to weed, to work, to clean, clear and improve. 

Now, how about a glass of wine from the Lake Garda region of Italy, just for old times sake? And maybe some popcorn, with a sprinkle of parmesan? Mmmm...