Good grief, did our garden explode. Brian and Dad have been working furiously to keep up with the tomatoes, but they've lost the battle. The tomatoes have taken over our house, our yard, our lives.
I groggily wandered out of the bedroom this morning, and there were about six hundred and eight tomatoes in the kitchen. They covered countertops, the china cabinet, the corners of the room, even the dog bowl was filled with tomatoes.
I raised my finger, opened my mouth to speak the "getthemoutofmywayineedtomakecoffee" voice and Brian interrupted quickly, "I'll take them to the neighbors TODAY!" And he did.
Dad boiled down a few hundred or so, and canned another batch of sauce. My house smells like a fine Italian restaurant. It's heaven. Except for the tomatoes in my bed.
Yesterday dad made chili sauce. For those who have never smelled good, old fashioned chili sauce, you don't know what you're missing. It's a mix of tomatoes, (and everything else you need to get rid of from the garden), vinegar and a bucketload of cloves and cinnamon. It boils all day until it's a thick, chunky sauce, and then you can it to eat with just about anything. Divine stuff.
Dad and I spent last week picking on each other - him picking on me for spending almost $10 on a cherry pie, and me picking on him for not eating it because I paid almost $10 for it.
So, yesterday Dad came home from the store and said, "You know, Heather, I would actually pay almost $10 for cherry pie for one special reason. . . "
"what reason is that, Dad?" I asked.
I would have paid it for YOU, because I know you like cherry pie."
(awwww)
And he pulled out a giant pan of yummy-gooey-delicious frosted brownies for me. He's a keeper.
I'm so grateful that he's here with us. We've had so much fun this year with the garden, chatting, learning from him and having him spend time with the Elizacritter. He's done so much for us that he doesn't even realize. . .
Brian is now in love with gardening - something he had no interest in before Dad came to stay with us. We have such a beautiful garden too - a fine one, for certain. Our sunflowers are probably 12-5 feet tall and proud. The pumpkins are fat and orange, just waiting for the cool, crisp weather to arrive. The tomatoes - well, let's just say I have a better understanding of the movie "Attack of the Killer Tomates."
Brian and Dad have started a few experiments too - Bonsais on the porch, pickles, (crocked cukes, pickled EVERYTHING and special pickles), composting, seed buying, flower growing, flower gardening, and IBC root beer drinking.
Elizabeth spends much of her time looking around the room for Grandpa, who will GLADLY do the Bucca-bucca dance for her (even if officer friendly won't!) He claps for her when the veggie-stars actually make it to her mouth. She grins that crazy toothless grin for him at the drop of a hat. In the mornings, she knows that when the floor above creaks, Grandpa will soon be coming down the stairs, and she turns her head to watch and wait for him to appear in the doorway.
She's going to be heartbroken when he returns to Florida for the winter (and so will we.)
And I got to spend the summer hanging out with my Dad.
Can anyone send me the recipe for warm winters? Dad said he'd stay if we can make it be 75 degrees and sunny on New Year's Day. I'd love to make it so.
My friend, Frista, decided that she needed a nickname for me. So I told her about all of the boring nicknames I had growing up, and that wished that I could have a COOL nickname, like "Crash," or "Godiva."
And she thusly nick-named me Godiva Crash. I wondered if it sounded too "porn-star-ish" but she wrote this:
I don't think it sounds like a porn star! I picture a girl wearing one of those old fashioned striped bathing suits from the 1920s, with little curls of hair escaping her swimming cap, running down the beach, past little old fashioned ladies who turn their noses up and remain prim while looking at her beauty, her strength, her courage.
I wish I could cook all of these wonderful experiences, sights and smells from my life into a nice, chunky sauce, bottle it up and save it for wintry, sulky days. But I suppose, even if I could, it would lose something in the process. After all, canned corn just isn't the same as nibbling those buttery morsels off the cob. Tomatoes from a jar just don't retain that sunshine-warmed sweetness. So I'll hold out for next summer when Dad and the geese fly north and we'll savor another summer . . . and hope the tomatoes don't kill us first.
Peace, till next
