Now that the end of summer is nigh, our garden is absolutely bursting with fresh produce. Every time Tara goes out there to water or prune or weed, she returns with armloads of stuff — mostly tomatoes, though there has been a stray pepper or zucchini just to keep things interesting.
There are other things that haven’t ripened yet, like lemon cucumbers and tomatillos, the latter of which are rapidly taking over what little garden space is left.
I sense a chili verde or seven in my future. (Fine with me. I have a great recipe!)
Currently though, it’s all about the tomatoes. Tara must own stock in Big Tomato or something, ’cause she planted 10 different varieties:
- Sungold
- Pineapple
- San Marzano
- Rainbow
- Large cherry
- White cherry
- Chocolate cherry
- Green zebra
- Porter
- Honeycomb
And you might recall she rigged up that fancy trellis system. Guys, there are 30 tomato plants, and last time I checked, two people living here. Does this seem like it might be a tad overkill?
All these tomatoes are invading the kitchen as methodically as Germans on a wartime rampage (too soon?), gobbling up counter space, overflowing from bowls, spilling out of paper bags. There is no demarcation line; all the poor bananas and onions and avocados can do is watch helplessly as their homeland is conquered inch by inch.
As a result, Tara has turned into a tomato hustler. Now that she has successfully grown them, her mission is to get rid of them…and she’s pulling out all the stops. Which means lots of tomato-centric recipes, like salads and BLTs and pasta dishes. And if tomatoes aren’t the star of the dish, they still play a supporting role.
I’m okay with this. If there’s such a thing as heaven on earth, it’s a tomato freshly plucked from the vine, its flesh sun-kissed and warm. But if, god forbid, I make myself a plate of food and there isn’t at least one sliced tomato or a handful of cherry tomatoes on there, she’s hovering over me, imploring me to “have some tomatoes with that!” The problem is, not every that goes well with tomatoes. A sandwich? Sure. Quesadilla? Ab-salsa-lutely. But the last time she suggested I “have some tomatoes with that!”, I was eating a bowl of cereal.
I’m an adventurous eater, but that’s a line even I won’t cross.
It’s gotten so bad, I now find myself being sneaky with food. I go into stealth mode when lunchtime rolls around, trying to fix my meal as quietly as possible, but it never works. Tara can be three rooms away on the opposite floor of the house, vacuuming and listening to a podcast while the TV is blaring, but the second I sit down at the table she swoops in, hurling yet another, “You should have some tomatoes with that!”
This is no way to live.
Fortunately, she bought a pressure canner and will be transforming our mountain of tomatoes into batches of fresh sauce. Presumably to use on spaghetti, not Rice Krispies. I hope.
In the meantime, I won’t tell her about this article that says tomatoes make a great ice cream topping.
I was chatting with Randy, my coworker, one day when he abruptly changed the topic mid-sentence after spotting my footwear.
“Are you wearing SPAM socks?!” he asked incredulously.
I rolled up the bottoms of my jeans for visual confirmation. I most certainly was wearing SPAM socks. Proudly, I might add. Despite a certain nameless blogger’s contrarian viewpoint, SPAM is a national treasure. If I’m not eating the stuff, I might as well be wearing it!
Though he didn’t come right out and say it, I suspect Randy was impressed by my cutting-edge fashion sensibilities. Our in-office schedules only overlap on Wednesdays, so he’s lucky I chose Hump Day to show off my dope threads.
The socks were one of many souvenirs from the gift shop of the SPAM Museum in Austin, Minnesota — a shrine to which I pilgrimaged not once, but twice. Randy is a native Minnesotan but has never visited the SPAM Museum. This oversight makes me question his Minnesotaness, to be honest. But I suppose he’s legit, because he informed me that the game schoolchildren in 49 other states play – Duck, Duck, Goose — is called Duck, Duck, Gray Duck in Minnesota.
What the cluck?!
I thought he was yanking my chain, but the internet backs him up: Minnesota is the only state Scandinavian enough to call it Duck, Duck, Gray Duck.
Huh. What an odd lot Minnesotans are. But in addition to the fabulous SPAM Museum, which you all must visit if given the opportunity (hell, make the opportunity and thank me later!), they gave us Tim Walz, so I have mad respect for my neighbors to the west.
My parents arrive this afternoon for a weeklong visit. When I asked them if they had any special meal requests, my dad suggested brisket.
“Great idea!” I told him. “I’m happy to fire up the Traeger!”
And I was…right up until the moment I went to the supermarket to pick up a brisket. Holy sticker shock!
Geez Louise, that’s a down payment on a car. I wouldn’t pay half that for a slab of meat, even if it is 16 lbs. My folks are great and all, but that’s a hard Yeah, no.
We’ll serve tomatoes instead!
Mark My Words 
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