I Dreamed About Writing About The Local Tomato I Had Last Week Until I Had One This Week

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December 16, 2011 at 10:43 am

I compose my best posts walking Molly the Eat Local Dog.  Eat local dog, of course because she is the dog of the Eat Local Family. Still, we gather more eat-local-ness when we commence the thrice a day walks.  We bundle in the tweedy, plaid-ish, LL Bean types of clothes to walk.  We do this for the same way they do it in the source of said look, the UK, to keep warm.  Yet, all that bundled, layered country look also makes us think of bundled layered country cooking; of long wooden tables and a saddle of hare, claret in the decanter as the good dining companion; of long Sunday lunches where that final bite of savory, the anchovy toasties, become a prelude to a crock of home-made soup for supper forthcoming.  City hipsters mostly begat the eat local lifestyle, but don’t most of us aspire to country gentry-hood?  We dream.

I dream and I compose.  Perhaps it is the clarity of thought that comes with the hyper-awareness needed to walk Molly the Eat Local Dog. We must remain vigil that one of her neighborhood enemies, the dreaded mixed Shepard, Piper from down the street, or the seemingly harmless–to us!–Springer, from the next block may appear from around the corner, and much hackles will be raised, teeth bared.  There may be a rabbit hidden to you but all so apparent to the endowed of nose; then the least becomes a cross-fit tool.  I like to think the attire of a prep school English teacher has me thinking like one, and as I walk Molly I compose posts, not just of exquisite detail, but with perfect parallal constructions and exquisite use of the pluperfect tense.  I drop Dublin references without even thinking about it.  Then, I arrive home.  Back in sloppy sweats I get sloppy thoughts.  What did I mean to say.

I compose awesome posts that I forget to enter.  You would not believe the posts left on the Molly walking trails.  Would you believe that only last week I thought about local tomatoes.  I had a glorious post roll around my head about the pleasure of tomatoes saved.  Funny thing happened though.  In waiting for that post to germinate I ate more local tomatoes. Yes.  Really.  I’m eating local tomatoes.  I mean tomatoes.  Not tomatoes as in put away tomatoes or tomatoes processed by my wife’s employer, Tomato Mountain, tomatoes.  Tomato tomatoes.  Last week I went for the last of a platter of fresh tomatoes gently nursed from green-ness to salad worthy over the course of several weeks.  Believe me, what ever was lacking here in tomato flavor, in tomato of summer heat, they made up for in the bittersweet way it comes when you meet up with a friend for what you know will be a long time hence.  See you next reunion and see you next harvest.  Just don’t see you on the pages of the Local Beet.

Besides why compose posts on last week’s tomatoes when I can compose posts on this week’s tomatoes. Monday, was the fog of red-eye arrival from Las Vegas, the wife not quite better, coming airport to pick me up (and that led to a chain reaction with the kids having to be up earlier to walk the dog, etc.).  No one was in a mood for cooking dinner, and we tried Melrose Park Mexican. Tuesday night, my wife tackled a surplus of greens; kales and chards, in her beloved slow cooker.  Wednesday night, what to eat on Wednesday. Surely, the way my wife slow cooks, we could have eaten more greens on Wednesday, but we figured we’d give that a day’s rest.  What.  What forced the issue, some freezer work by my wife.  In knocking some frost off a packaged of Crystal’s sausages, I tore the package.  What better way to cook her sausage than in the Jamie Oliver inspired dish where sausages are combined with cherry tomatoes and oven baked.  Where could there be local cherry tomatoes be in December.  Well, in the garage of the Local Family.  OK, not cherry tomatoes.  I mis-lead you.  They were juliet tomatoes.

Maybe a bit vapid from the temperature swings of the last several weeks, these tomatoes were not the one thing unnecessary to dinner. Moldy. They were in fine, red, oval, shape.  At least fine shape for a dish of Jamie Oliver’s design.  Baked with his necessary glugs of oil, it made for a highly delicious meal, especially when combined with wide Amish egg noodles.  You would think such a meal, in December would be a dream unless I posted about it.

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