Timely harvest
Socking away your garden’s goodies is the perfect recipe to beat COVID blues
Peeling tomatoes is a slippery, juicy job. The paring knife at a careful angle gently lifts a single sheaf of red skin and pulls it away, sheet by sheet.
The process is time-consuming but meditative.
While I carefully tug and the outer skin releases, I think of my grandkids navigating hybrid school days. I think of my kids adjusting the way they must work from home because of it. Collecting and inspecting the tomatoes this morning beats back a sliver of unexpected blues brought on by months of COVID-19 news layered with constraints on how we learn, work and play — how we can spend time with our loved ones, if at all. The thought of keeping distance from, and shortening visits with, my elderly in-laws has me wondering if it has really helped our well-being.
The knife glides through the red flesh, halving the tomato and dividing it into moist chunks as I ponder the giving and taking that COVID has demanded of our lives these last six months.
Loneliness is not a good recipe for anyone, no matter what.
I worry how COVID has affected close friends of our daughter who are expecting their first child in December. Nick had to watch from the parking lot via FaceTime while Kara had her first ultrasound. They’re expecting a girl. I remember holding Steve’s hand through my first ultrasound.
Tomato juice has seeped by the time the fifth tomato is prepped. I tear off a paper towel and sop up some of the mess. The fragrant sections slide into the pot, guided by the dull side of the blade. I can’t resist, and after a piece of tomato falls by the stove, it’s swiftly retrieved and gobbled up.
Thanksgiving is a long way off, but already NYC’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is being reimagined — COVID has a way of hurrying up and waiting when it comes to planning for the holidays. This past week, the CDC suggested Halloween should not be a door-to-door affair for children and families. I’m still stuck on parents being told not to have their kids wear two masks.
I shake my head and chop an onion to a soft birdsong finding its way through the screen.
Bulbous heads separated, papery garlic skins are peeled, the pale meat of the cloves minced, their pungent stickiness a pleasant ingredient. I stir. Spilled out along the length of counter, the garden’s last silent bounty is proof of the past, witness to the moment and hope for the future.
Pulling open the drawer containing ladles, spatulas, tea strainers, brushes and scoopers, I finally locate a tablespoon. Another drawer reveals needed spices. Wiping my hands on my apron, I breathe in, filling up with the sense of satisfaction that comes from planning ahead for something
special. Above, a far-off jet descends, Boston-bound, a giant exhalation of deceleration as ground cayenne pepper is sprinkled into the mix to spice the salsa.
I’m not a gardener, but when President Donald Trump declared a national emergency and life and livelihood ground to a halt last spring, I decided it was time to become one. I learned a few things these last months. For one, tomatoes need space and support because the weight of their fruit will have them rotting on the ground if they don’t get enough air and light. Second, raised beds require shovelfuls of loam, and with that, doses of Advil. Third, mint will take over the whole enterprise if given the chance. Obviously, plants need food as well as sunshine and water. They need consistent care. And I learned the hard way that pests are a given, which will cost you your broccoli or leave no room for squeamishness.
I also learned a modicum of patience and marveled at the miracle of transformation. A single flower, under the right conditions, can become a thing of sustenance. That is amazing to me.
I learned that there are no COVID constraints on one’s own garden.
To my surprise, the summer yielded nutritious treats that included sweet cucumbers, tiny succulent watermelons and tons of cherry tomatoes. Each a delightful reward for
this newbie tiller.
And so, when a handful of sugar pumpkins signaled that frost was close, I grabbed a couple baskets from the pantry and harvested a small bounty that would eventually find its way into the freezer as marinara sauce and salsa for the coming winter table.
Cooking around a fire — or, in this case, my range top — is cathartic for its life-sustaining act alone.
And cooking for my family, even though we live apart,
keeps me staying positive for the future when we will be together.
Three beeps from the digital timer on the oven signals the half-hour mark, and the flame beneath the pan is turned down to a simmer. Warm with the smell of a spicy salsa recipe, the kitchen holds promises for family time.
Fifteen minutes later, enough liquid has evaporated from the recipe, baptizing the entire house in a kind of culinary perpetuity, at least for the coming months.
Moving back across the floor to the range, the iron pot bubbles with the promise of coming gatherings, and the recipe be
gins to thicken as soon as the burner is switched off.
Gingerly, a sample from the old wooden spoon is lifted and tasted. It leaves my palate happy, knowing the tangy sweetness will deliver the welcome heat of summer to the cold days of winter.
“Delish!” I say to myself as the freezer drawer opens.