Week 2 :: Appetizer (Considering the Tomato)

I woke up this morning to water my plants.

This is the first year that I have really bothered to tend to the planters outside, for the sole reason that this year, unlike any other, I have a gustatory inclination towards them. Growing steadily and slowly outside are: swiss chard, tomatoes, strawberries, borage, mesclun mix, chives, lettuce, carrots, parsley, and basil. I can't say that I've been the most reliable of water-bearers to my wee green things, though I am making a concerted effort to care for them, to cut away the dead leaves, to test the soil to make sure that the water is reaching their roots instead of hovering somewhat uselessly on the top layer of dirt.

There's something clearly very satisfying about tending to plants, and I have never understood why gardening is such a fulfilling pastime. I suppose, in my case, that it's the stubbornness of my constitution that urges me to bloody well get on with things and do them myself. There is, of course, a willfully blind ease that comes along with popping over to the grocery and plucking a plastic clam-shell filled with brilliantly red cherry tomatoes, and feeling so very pleased that they look considerably nicer and healthier than the rather lacklustre Roma tomatoes piled in a sorry heap. But there's also a frustration there, that "if only I'd planted my tomato plants in time," I, too, would feel soulfully organic and revel in the satisfaction that I had been oh so patiently seasonal and consumed that which nature had made me wait for.

But that's not really what I think about when I stop to consider the tomato (which is not to say that I'm not an ethically inclined girl, as I too, have read more Michael Pollan than I can stomach). What strikes me is the joy of seeing this fragrantly sweet plant grow ever so slowly over the course of the summer while I go out into the world and live my life. There's a constancy in doing-it-yourself in the garden, a reassurance that no matter how many hearts get broken or how many sleepless nights I have, one day, the tomatoes will bloom, and then they will be green, and one day--hopefully in the early evening on a day in mid-August--they will be red, and you can pluck them and still taste the warmth of the sunshine in them.

I have become disenchanted, I suppose, with the notion that it would be easier to allow others to do things for me, or hold myself in a sterile environment where I am somehow safe from the world but never really safe from the whims and machinations of my own curious mind. I'm not abstaining from store-bought tomatoes (and lettuce, and basil, and so on) in attempt to deprive myself and make some statement about the strength of my conviction, or call out others as weak for not being able to bloody well stick it out and wait for the goddamn tomato (or the reprieve from depression, or the cessation of anxiety). But for the sake of my own wee green heart, which is yet to become fully ripened with the willingness to take risks and be open to the world, I shall spend my summer sitting patiently with my plants, enjoying the slow and steady pace at which they simply are becoming themselves.

Week 1 :: Dessert (Unexpected Sweetness)

I have been using soft unripened goat cheese and cherry tomatoes relatively frequently these days (as one must always use up what is still in the refrigerator) and decided to put them into what were supposed to be yesterday's rather savoury dishes. The butternut squash and chickpea paste, lacking the cumin with it was supposed to be made, was rendered even more sweet by the addition of a small pat of goat cheese. Luckily, the sharpness of the white cheddar and, somewhat surprisingly, the fresh bitterness of the alfalfa sprouts, mitigated the surprisingly overwhelming brightness of the amuse-bouches. The simple red sauce, much to my chagrin, was almost dessert-like. Usually I add in whatever half-opened bottle of red wine that is lying around, to cut the sweetness with some acidity, and I certainly failed to purchase the requisite garlic that adds bite to any pasta dish.

Then I moved on to the apple crumble.

The tartness of a Granny Smith apples is amplified a hundred-fold when baked, and in my reticence to use too much brown sugar in the streusel topping, I found myself rather shocked at the bitterness of what ought to be generally a rather succulently sweet dish.

The irony of this meal--a sort of saccharine deception--is not an unfamiliar theme in my life as of late. In the past few years, many of my confidantes and allies have betrayed my confidence despite their apparent sweetness and concern. But rather than wallowing in the misery of these moments (which, in spite of their briefness, seem to linger and simmer long after), I'm choosing instead to focus on the incredible kindnesses that have come my way.

In the past five months, I have had unexpected hearts open themselves up to me. I have encountered tenderness and graciousness as I made the difficult transition to a new university, found new friends to call my companions on my path towards health and happiness, and have constantly marveled at how my expectations have been transcended. Have I become an optimist? Not yet, certainly, but I am now more willing to accept and embrace the unexpected sweetness that emulsifies even the most dreary days with joy.