Tomato Anxiety To Tomato Serenity

I wrote about tomato anxiety a week ago. It’s a thing in our house because we grow too many. Growing fewer isn’t an option. I know, I know… sounds such an obvious solution, but as with so many things, there are nuances…

I really wanted a tomato Tardis, but obviously there’s no such thing… There’s that ‘obviously’ again. Life’s taught me never to close the door on anything just because it’s ‘obvious’.Not only does such a wonder exist, but after I’d written about it, Uvebruce popped up in the comments with a wonderful recipe for tomato sauce — less bulky than chutney, doesn’t take freezer space, and keeps. We’ve made our first batch and it’s delicious.

The lesson: If it’s obvious, dig deeper.

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Originally published in The Daily Cuppa

Indecisive Weather — Assertive Plants

 

It’s that time of year when we have some red-hot days and think it’s summer, only for the weather to cry “Fooled you!” and drench us with a sudden downpour. It has been a week where we tried to get into all corners of the garden to get things in order.

The Indian Bean tree (which we grew from a twig) is unfurling its leaves. It’s always later than the other trees and we used to despair of it every year, but here it is again, showing that it’s full of life.

Hot on the heels of the tree, the pond plants have come into flower. The pond never did recover from the geese.

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

Sitting Under The Cloud

Naughty children at my granddaughter’s nursery school are punished by “sitting under the cloud.”

Today, I found her drawing on my office wall — not a major infringement, to be honest; I once plotted a whole novel on my office walls before I got my giant whiteboard, however, it is a forbidden activity.

I told her, “I’m going to find a cloud for you if you do that again.”

Later, following a microsecond’s inattention on my part, I discovered her back in the office. She’d drawn a cloud on the forbidden wall and was sitting under it, painting her nails with a lipstick.

I silently applauded the creative thinking but withdrew from the field. I know when I'm beaten.

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Originally published in The Daily Cuppa

You Can’t Escape Friends Like These

 

We set out today to see a trio of old friends we’ve not visited since the covid pandemic started. Not that they have the least interest in seeing us, but we were regular visitors up to a couple of years ago.

After the meridian line (zero degrees longitude) leaves the Arctic Circle, it doesn’t hit land until it comes ashore on nearby Tunstall beach. We were heading into an area that takes wind direct from the Arctic with little to get in its way. Even on a warm spring day, several layers of clothing are needed.

We could see our old friends long before we could reach out and touch them...

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

Diving Into A Different Creative Outlet

It wasn’t planned, but Tom Daley and I prepared for winter together.

Being seized by an overwhelming desire to knit came out of nowhere, unless it was the subconscious thought that knitting can’t erupt into political controversy and never figures in the news. I’ve not knitted in decades, and I never had the least aptitude for it, but hey, have-wool-will-knit — and I had wool.

A forensic search of the house turned up a knitting needle — just the one — but I’m not a creative type for nothing, and my scarf began life on one knitting needle and a chopstick.

An online marketplace purchase later, it was on proper knitting needles — not the same size as the original, but then the original wasn’t the same diameter as the chopstick.

It was an exhausting fortnight-long project that rooted out any urge to knit for another few decades, and I was still glowing with a sense of achievement when knitting popped up all over the news; Tom Daley was knitting an Olympic cardigan between dives.

Wow! Knitting round corners and a gold medal for diving. It’s hard not to be impressed.

Tom Daley and I prepared for winter together. He came out champion for fancy footwork, both in the knitting and the diving, but I wonder how he’d have fared if his cardigan had had to start out on a chopstick. Or indeed if he’d worn it for one of his dives.

Mine might not have made the medals, but it’s a good scarf. Bring on winter!

 

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Originally published in The Haven

Mysteries, Blue Skies, And Visits

 

A busy week has left mysteries unsolved but had good weather in which to mull them over.

A Sign With A Number Of Anomalies

Walking through an unfamiliar town, we came across this sign:

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

Tomato Anxiety? Problem Solved

 

For years I assumed the tomato Tardis was a myth

There’s a time of year when tomatoes haunt my dreams. I have nothing against homegrown tomatoes, I love them. It feels good to saunter through the greenhouse and pluck and eat a ripe tomato.

But how swiftly that relaxed saunter morphs into a jungle expedition, where they all clamour for attention. We’re ripe! We’re ready to be picked! Ready for storage! Don’t delay!

Then it’s tomato frenzy. Tomatoes of some sort with every meal (or else). The surplus is frozen or stored until every corner of everywhere fills up. Things get fraught:

Where will the apples go?

Get some tomato sauce on those cornflakes!

Why did you plant so many?

Let’s make chutney. We’ll give away the surplus.

Yeah, right. We’re still eating 5-year old chutney and people send us Christmas cards that say: Happy Christmas, no more chutney thanks.

This can’t go on. Solutions are needed.

1. Grow fewer tomatoes — seems obvious but I try this every year and fail. I wrote about it here.
2. Find a tomato Tardis that can store a million tomatoes in a matchbox. I thought this was pie-in-the-sky, then … Bingo! I found one.

Our saviour is a fruit dryer. It removes all the liquid — that’s a lot. Pro tip: if you’re at a posh dinner and wish to come across as a sophisticated dainty eater, treat whole tomatoes as live grenades and steer clear.

A few days ago, I was fighting my way through this little lot with a machete. I’m now on the way to reducing a whole greenhouse to a single jar.

Happy days.

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Originally published in The Haven