I’m not gonna do a blow by blow, step by step timeline and update of everything about this Thanksgiving dinner. We know how to do this, and as the afternoon advances, I am likely to dribble off in the narrative and soon after go silent. As I often do, I took my hot cup of coffee outside to breathe the cold fresh ocean air and watch the sun rise on 18th street. I have learned that the resident birds have a highly evolved society which includes communication, education, and some form of justice. This morning when I went out, there was some counsel of seagulls on the roof of the buildings across the street.
The seagulls are generally the largest birds that live in the neighborhood. Most of the birds are of course the rock doves we frequently call pigeons. There are many hummingbirds in the flowers out back. Sparrows, finches, redwing blackbirds. The seas gulls watch over these smaller birds, particularly in Spring when the hawks are looking for chicks. The hawks visit whenever they please, which is to say when they are hungry and have cleaned out the nests on the hill. They live in the big trees in Dolores Park, where they can swoop out of the sky, tearing a pigeon to shreds in a poof of feathers and blood. If the meal remains alive after the brutal attack, no worries, the falcon will takes its favored tallon and drive it into the pigeons face, crushing its head.
Well, it turns out that the hawks are not the only ones eating birds today, and I think the seagulls must have sensed that many of their albeit distant cousins would be cooked and eaten today. Ha! Can you imagine if had to catch the turkey with my hands and could only kill and process it with my fingers? That’s what hawks do. More to come, it is a beautiful day.
I’d add some pictures, but how many pictures of roast turkey do you need to see?
Well now, it’s several days later. I told you I’d drop off, who knew it would be four days! In addition to having a wonderful Thanksgiving full of food, wine, and song, it also came with am energy draining chest and head cold. So, I am laying low now.
The dinner was lovely and everything turned out great, end of story. In my next post, I may be trying something a little different. More to come.
The pie is finished. The cheese ball is mellowing next to the mashed potatoes, also nestling in for the long night. Next, green bean casserole, then stuffing, before finishing the day with prepping the turkey, whatever that will be and I haven’t decided yet. More on that earlier. Sticks of butter used so far: 1. Containers of cream:1. Packets of cream cheese: 3 and counting. Cream cheese must be the most used ingredient in the Thanksgiving meal, no shit. I never buy cream cheese, and yet around the holidays I buy probably 10 lbs of the stuff and it goes into everything. Cheese ball, obviously, sauerkraut balls, the pumpkin raisin tart, and whatever else. What do you think would happen if we ran out of cream cheese? Let’s not even contemplate it. Don’t mention it at the dinner table.
The tart is resting in the oven, hoping to avoid the great holiday crack. You know what this is if you bake, when a pumpkin pie splits open in the middle with a huge, eye-shaped, canyon. The other great fear is the undercooked bottom. That’s the worst thing ever. The oven temperature was right, the custard is just set, the oven is now off, and the oven door is slightly open, which should slow the cooling and thus the chances of the piequake. No piequake. Somehow, it always happens to me. Everyone says, “that’s OK cause it still tastes good!” and yes, i understand that, but still and all, I want people to look at my pie and say, “wow so smooth and peaceful looking, no scars!”. OK, time will tell. I will take photo of it in thirty minutes or so.
Yes, there’s our lovely tart. OK, it’s going on 9PM now, what have I got left in me tonight? Hmmm…..I may be done. But that’s OK, because the turkey is all thawed out and I can get to it first thing. I’m not serving it till 6:30PM so, we good. I’m gonna go with that great method from last year, bone the leg and thigh wrap em’ in butter and sage and keep the breast on the bone and roast it separately. This will cut the cooking time in half, and the breast needs to go in first.
Tally: Eggs used 3, Sticks of butter: 2, Packets of cream cheese: 4, Sticks of celery: 6, Carrots: 6, Onions: 3 .
Perhaps I’m feeling a little sentimental, perhaps I need a little Christmas, right this very minute. Tomorrow, Macy’s Department store celebrates 100 years of the grand Parade down 5th Ave on Thanksgiving. Macy’s is closing its flagship store in San Francisco. So, this will be the last year of this:
OK, friends, I’m tired. Tomorrow morning early, I finish the food. Then, I sweep and clean, and I hope hope hope that I have time for a long morning walk and a nice hot bath before the guests come over. Yes, that’s a tall order, but we must set our sights high.
There’s a lot going on here. We are in the midst of a bomb cyclone, which sounds fun till you go to take the trash out. Ankle deep water, it is impossible to get to the grocery store even. Good thing I am nestled safely in my home, surrounded by piles of garbage. The above photo is the groaning board of ingredients. You got your fennel, you got your egg (just one!) your mushrooms. What is that on the stove you don’t ask? Or that mysterious bright light over the sink? Is that a bright light over the sink? On such a rainy and cold day as this, not even hot soup will cheer our drooping sprites. No! We need the miracle that is Sauce Bechamel, and her gentle lovers. Tonight, a thick Sauce Veloute, thick with a wonderful Spanish sheep’s cheese, will enrobe the royal crepes, which themselves will be pregnant with creamed spinach and duxelles.
I pulled out the table for the first time this season, I’ve made space for the tree, we’re using cloth napkins, the whole thing is coming together, sir.
First, I am still on my arugula salad kick. Tonight, arugula, pomegranate, pumpkin seeds, fennel, apple, champagne vinaigrette. An oldie, but a goodie.
Oh my goodness, these crepes are so delicious. I used Julia’s method, to blend it in the blender. The pancakes are so light and fluffy, you can’t even tell they are light and fluffy. All you get is a warm solid bite of butter and salt, with a little toast thrown in.
The wind doth howl, and the rain doth blow, our first atmospheric river of the season. I’ve had a few off dishes lately. Things that should have worked but didn’t. More mushy rice. Why can I not get this right on a consistent basis? I know exactly what I am doing, but something goes amiss. It’s like if it’s even slightly off, good-bye. To make matter worse, I tried to make fried rice with. Double disappointment!!
A cornbread that went South. Now, this one is a real mystery. The only reasonable explanation is that oven thermometer has gone all goofy-da-kattywompus. The cornbread was burned to a crisp in under twenty minutes. It would have been tasty. OK, let it go, Benji. Breathe deeply. These things happen.
These little things are so annoying. Like potatoes cooking unevenly. Has this happened to you? The potatoes are about the same size and type, they are all cooking at the same rate (or so it would seem to the naked eye), yet some potatoes make be more chunky than others. And are these just excuses for my carelessness? Slow inhale. Slow exhale.
Today, a joyful soup for the rainy season that has just begun. Sweet Italian sausage. Hot Italian sausage. Red wine, tomatoes, duck stock, garbanzo beans, onion, celery, carrot, four cheese tortellini. An old family favorite. Delicious. It pairs well with this old flick by Doris Day and James Garner. It’s amusing, and boy, is she terrific. They don’t make hairdos like that anymore.
Soup, when other voices die. It’s wild, the wind hitting the side of the building and all the attendant creaking and cracking and rattling of windows.
Having been asked earlier about peelers, I have developed the following treatise. I’ll call it The Spirit of the Peeler. The peeler is in my case a Trinity three peels in one, one in three. They are stuck together through the magnetic power of magnets. One is smooth, one is serrated, one is a shredder. The smooth one is used for things that are easy to peel like potatoes, broccoli, apples. The serrated one is for tender things like tomatoes, peaches, grapes. blueberries. Just kidding. Have you ever tried to peel a blueberry? The shredder is wonderful for getting bite sized tidbits for salad, garnish, or stir-fry. Shredded carrots. Just right. It’s actually super handy because your guests with think you’ve got mad knife skills when you don’t.
It can be a lot of fun to peel things. But be sure that the peeled is comfortable with the peel feel. All we have is feelins, feelins about peelins. These feelings require verse.
I like to peel apples, sure.
I like to peel pears.
The half-peel cucumber’s allure.
and shave the peaches’ hairs.
The shy bell pepper removes her gown
and celery is freed.
The kiwi is no longer brown,
but green and full of seed.
Asparagus so delicate
you may chop off her leg
And no matter dear how deft with that
you cannot peel an egg.
I peel and peel with all my might
I peel until I’m sore
I peel the fruit and veg all night
and then I peel some more.
Ribbons of peel fly through space
Ribbons of peel fill the air.
Ribbons of peel all over the place
Fruit and Veg peel everywhere!!
St. Joseph Art Society, Howard Street, San Francisco
A building in the Mid-Market neighborhood in SF with every single light on. I can only imagine they are doing this on purpose for some reason. Like public art, or some political statement. Unless it’s the same person forgetting to turn off every light in every room they walk in to.
And that’s it kids. Doris and James have been reunited, and the two little girls too! Aw, what a flick. What a night. What a life.
Hail, hail Freedonia, Land of the Brave and Free! Oh that Groucho would come back and make mockery of international diplomacy. Anyway, here we are. What does a man do? Well, last night we celebrated a friend’s birthday. Roast Five-Spice Honey glazed duck. It was lovely, with stir-fried vegetables and a less than perfect but tolerable fried rice. With what remained of the carcass and neck, carrots, spring onion, ginger, garlic, star anise, cinnamon, cloves, and 12 hours of cooking- a deep golden brown broth, glistening with tiny quivering bubbles of nutrient rich fat. It is so delicious, I will probably enjoy it alone in a mug. Just drink it. Something so delicious should not be wasted on others.
It also might be really nice to clarify it, a consomme, and put some very thinly sliced spring onion and carrot. How lovely can that be?
OK, now it’s time to talk about cakes. I made a beauty of a cake. In what has become an unintended, emergent theme of this season’s deserts, I made another cake with crumble topping. What made this cake so special? Some of it is technique-the butter must be well whipped and the sugar must be thoroughly dissolved in the butter. The eggs are added one at a time and whipped thoroughly into the butter. It should have a certain sound, I think. I’ve called it the clabberclabber. Once you hear that special clabberclabber, fold the flour and liquid in very gently, you’re done with the whipping.
I might have mentioned a moment ago that this is an improvised recipe, and I used yogurt as the liquid. When I added the last of the flour, it was too dry to be a batter. I paused and had a thought. WWJD? What would Julia do? Well, I have no clue. But, I remembered an old trick from a recipe for chocolate mousse. I mixed in three tablespoons of water, and whipped it on high speed for twenty seconds. It produced fluffy clouds of beautiful whipped batter. I tossed in many chunks of apples, poured it into the pan, baked it, and oh. Oh so lovely. A moist texture, a gentle crumb, a little cinnamon and the crunch of toasted pecans.
It’s time to move on. It’s time to dream of what may be. You know the iconic scene, where Groucho is not sure if he is looking a mirror or not, and Harpo is dressed just like him, mirroring his actions. It takes him awhile to figure out that it is indeed another person and not a mirror. Sometimes we look at things and can’t tell if they are real or not. This scene reminds us that everything is real, including the imagined. This will be important to remember in the coming months. In the meantime, Duck Soup.
Ok, Ok, we may all be a little stressed, and I find, when stressed, the taste buds are the first to go. I crave salt, sweets, fat, whatever, when I’m a little stressed only because I can’t taste more subtle flavors. When the stress lifts, so too the embargo on flavor. That’s what may have happened this week with my poor Persimmon pudding. They looked and smelled so wonderful, the persimmons giving gently to my tender yet unrelenting hand. The sweet amber jelly gave forth, lightly floral and sweet and Pacific and everything. It went into the pudding. Cinnamon, butter, lemon juice, zest, and the usual binders and leavening agents. It was almost burned and boring and had no flavor in particular whatsoever. It was sad, because the persimmons promised so much, yet fell short of the goal. Unlike the apples and cranberries that went into tonight’s crisp, a crisp worth remembering, and savoring for years, no decades, or centuries to come.
Fresh cranberry apple crisp with cinnamon, nutmeg, oats, flour, butter, salt, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla and toasted almonds. Good times! What an exceptional little Fall trifle!
And, there’s a chicken soup on the stove, the night is chilly and the wind, well, it’s not strong, but it’s menacing.
There’s a special moment in the cooking: I am in the living room, with say, an Agatha Christie mystery about to pop on the screen, and my nostrils get a tingle of the thing that’s a’cookin. I have learned, in almost all circumstances, when I smell the food cooking in the living room, it’s almost ready. That was true in the case of this pizza.
It started with a full to bursting flat of cherry tomatoes, all shapes, sizes and colors, from ruby red to deep purple to pale green. They were gonna rot right there in front of me if I didn’t act fast. Just like that Poirot!
I’ve always imagined that if I ever had to say, spend a weekend where Jessica Fletcher or Hercules Poirot were some how involved, I’d stay the hell away from them. These two are way too observant for their own good, like it’s their responsibility to know everyone’s relationship before the murder takes place! Has anyone been privy to more murders than these two? Miss Marple? At any rate, October is on the wane and the tomatoes aren’t gonna improve with the passage of time. At least, not in this form.
First, I made a tomato, basil pie with goat cheese in a cormealish crust in a cast iron skillet. OK, very good. Then, a giant pot of cherry tomato sauce, which I simmered down and simmered down until it was smooth, creamy, and oh so tangy; it was such an amazingly alive sauce with incredible intense tomato flavor. It made me wince and pucker, a little pinch of sugar calmed it down. Then it came into its own and tasted great on pasta with a fresh scandal of cheese.
On the bargain table at the farmer’s market: gypsy peppers. The time of the gypsy pepper is come! I love these little guys, and I got a big bag of ’em for only one whole American dollar! Like the tomatoes, they are small and pigmentaly varied. Earlier, I stuffed and baked many of them, a wonderful thing to do to a pepper. Cream cheese, toasted pumpkin seeds, a little smoked paprika, salt. They were real, they were yummy. The remainder were chopped, mixed with the darling sauce, and scatter swept across the surface of this pizza dough.
I was hoping to tell you that it was the best pizza dough I’ve ever made, but that would be a little fib. I have made better ones. Better tasting ones, but maybe not better texture and whatever they call it, dough feel. It is representative of many of the doughs that I’ve made over the years and you know he knows, right? Hercules? He knows you’re lying lady, he knows you’re lying. He saw you talking to the recently violently deceased elderly gal out by the horse stalls, and he saw you yell at her about your gambling debt and, oh, I’m sorry, I’m writing this with the damn show on. This blog is about food, and by golly, I’m sticking to it. Nothing can stop me now. I’ll stick to my dough from now on. OK, so the dough was representative meaning that I used bread flour, used as little as possible to keep the dough tender and lightly spongy, I only kneaded it very briefly (but thoroughly, goofy!!), and made sure there was plenty of olive oil in the pan. Now I’ll admit, this dough maybe a little stickier than you’d like, or at least tackier than normal, but stick to this method, and you’ll be making pizzas worth stickin around for, kiddo! When I poured it out of the bowl after the first rise, it rolled away from me in thousands of little spider string tendrils holding onto the side of the bowl. Our little yeast brothers and sisters, trying to climb up the side and escape with dough on their back, tethering them. For a brief moment, they believe that they can attain freedom from being an indentured leavener. They struggle up the side of the bowl in the futile first rise. We punch them down mightily. They try again. We cook and eat them. Their ultimate defeat is our glory in the bakery. Thank you, yeast, for your sacrifice.
It rose beautifully, it was filled with wonderful air pockets, it was fun to play around with. It spread easily, It baked beautifully, crisp all along the bottom, I had reduced the sauce down, so it wasn’t liquidy, and I put just the right blend of Parmesan, Mozzarella, and some interesting other kind of cheese like Gruyere. Gruyere adjacent. It baked till I smelled it, walked into the kitchen and OOOHHH, I know he did it, he was the one with access to the blow dart the whole time. He hated the old lady, he hated her. And rightly so, she threatened to spill the beans on, you know what? I’m sorry. I feel at this point you must be worthy of an apology. I will admit, that this blog is important, and my attention is divided. That’s Christie’s fault, really isn’t it?
OK, back to reality. All is great and grand and good. I enhanced the sauce with fennel, oregano, garlic, the usual.
It’s almost Halloween, and that means it’s time to think about Thanksgiving and what fun adventures we may pursue. At present, I have a duck, two entire racks of St. Louis-style ribs, and chicken bones for stock in the freezer. They’re gonna have to make room for our Tom Turkey!! Wow, is it time? Yes, it’s time. The holidays. Holidays.
Oh, and that ended up being the wrong murderer, and now they’re talking to someone else, who is going to turn out to be the right murderer or knows the right murderer. Shoot, I’m sorry gang, they gonna do a big reveal, I need to put down the pen.
Alright now, the show’s over. The dentist did it. Of course, the dentist. Any ole whodidlywoo, some in the community have been clammering for Turducken, which is an interesting idea, as I already have the duck. I think that’s in part what caused the clammering. I have already boned several turkeys in my time, I’m sure a duck and a chicken can’t be that much harder, right? Yeah?
Oh my good god. That looks challenging on many levels. I wonder if I am psychologically prepared to take on a project like this. Indeed, if I am emotionally mature enough for the patience and respect these dead birds deserve. It’s a lot of raw meat, animal bones, sharp knives flying around everywhere. I’d like to add that this is a stock image of a Turducken chosen from a panoply of images. I looked at many before I chose this one. I do not urge you to do the same. I have to looked at too many. I am desensitized.
On my kitchen counter there are three heavily pregnant persimmons. I have taken them to limit of ripeness, and we are all on borrowed time. At some point near to this one, the tired and stretched skin of the of fruit will give, and it will sigh forth a gush of orange red sweet and sticky innards that will ooze across the counter and dribble onto the floor, discovered in the morning by my right sock and consequent foot while the rest of me is trying to make coffee. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll be making persimmon pudding to go with that coffee!
Waiter, there’s a duck in my freezer. Yes, friends, fall finally arrived in the City by the Bay, or at least in my rent controlled kitchen. A large pot of minestrone to start the week, chock full of all the vegetables that wanted to simmer together. Wait, no. Go back.
First, a trip to Colorado, where the world looks like this:
Now, I know you’re probably hopin’ for a ripping yarn about how I bagged me one a them reindeer and ate all the juicy meat. Well, I didn’t. But I did eat a lot of meat. That happens in Colorado. My aunt made a wonderful and sustaining soup co-starring cauliflower, which I forget how much I enjoy. I made sure to toss a head into my minestrone.
Incidentally, did you know that the word minestrone comes from a Latin root, “to serve forth, or that which is served”, the same root as our English words administrate and all its cousins. Ain’t that something?
OK, back to San Francisco and a punishing heat wave. Having promised to prepare a German-style pot roast with potatoes and sauerkraut for an Oktoberfest of sorts, I woke at 5 in the morning to prepare the food before it reached a hellacious 92 degrees F in my home. Despite the unseasonal weather and more inappropriate menu, the food was consumed with almost primordial abandon, sweating beasts tearing singed flesh with the same canine teeth as our ancestors. Not exactly the same, but you know what I’m saying. About evolution, and how close we are to cavemen. At any rate, the temperature eventually fell and fall finally arrived.
I throw myself into my life’s passion: watching B Horror movies on a channel chillingly called Watch Movies! while I sort of pay attention to a very ambitious cooking project. Now, I have seen some bad movies in my day, kids, but few are as abjectly horrible as 1959’s Alligator People. This movie is so poorly made, complete with rubber alligators and B-role of old nature movies, it’s a scream. It’s also filled with despicable people that you really enjoy watching become alligator shit. I almost didn’t have the bandwidth to focus on my project:
Egg noodle dough, for egg noodles. I am trying my hand at Ravioli, something I’ve done several times over the years with mixed results. I pull out the ole Kitchen Aid Pasta rolling attachment and set to my work. Everything was going fine, honest, till I decided to brush of some of excess flour off the top of attachment with a couple of paper towels, accidentally hit the on switch which immediately pulls the too-thick paper towels into the pasta roller, instantly destroying the mechanism on the pasta attachment. So, no more pasta attachment. I was a little angry and a little bummed, with too much pumpkin goat cheese filling and not enough homemade pasta. But as the late, great, Dr. Morgan Forden-Felder once said “too much ham makes the blood salty.” And he’s right, that’s why there’s no ham in the sauce. I improvised.
I had some ready-to-put-in-the-oven lasagna sheets. I grabbed a loaf pan, opened a can of tomatoes, mushed em up with a little salt, and poured a little bit in the bottom of the pan. Next, a noodle. Then, a heaping helping of pumpkin filling, and a scandalous full fist of grated Pecorino-Romano cheese. Repeat, repeat, repeat, till all the stuff is gone. Then get one of them baseball sized mozzarella balls, crush it in your thick strong hands, and cover that baby with all the white strings. Bake for an hour. Parsley, fresh basil. Eat.
A salad too. I came up with this one on my own. Arugula. Pomegranate. Fuyu persimmons. Granny Smith apple. pumpkin seeds. Champagne vinaigrette.
Now, what about that duck? Another fun fact- the word duck, meaning to hide or seek cover came first, to describe the activity that was required to shoot the animal out of the sky. They (whoever they may be) decided to call the bird duck, cause that’s what they do when they kill it. Ain’t that something too? They probably weren’t shooting them with guns. It was probably a rock in a sling shot or an arrow or something from the olden times.
Anyway, if the weather stays this good, I will thaw our little friend, roast her up Chinese style (complete with pouring boiling water over the raw skin to get it to blister and release fat), and service it forth (administrate it, if you will) with scallions sliced on the bias, Hoisin sauce, and those cute little fluffy white pancakes. I remember this amazing dish from the Chinese restaurants in Queensway, London. Call me what you will, I still think London has some of the best Chinese restaurants anywhere, and I should know. I’m from Ohio.
First, the best hot cocoa perhaps in the universe. 4 cups of milk. Heat and steep one whole dried Ancho chili, six cinnamon sticks for a half hour or so. Oh, and about half a cup of sugar. Then, I melt two entire dark chocolate bars into the mix and whisk in some heavy cream. It is so dreamy delicious, slightly spicy and richly chocolatey (duh). You know what it is? It’s honest, and I know that because I’m watching the SF Mayoral candidate debates and listening to these acidic blubber bags pontificate on our fair city’s woes, this elixir is the soothing balm, bringing me back to center. Geez, if this dude says “downtown” one more time.
The view from above. A short flourish, an extemporization. A casual bagatelle at the tale end of summer. A full head of lettuce, leaves separated, cleaned, dried, and fanned out on a large platter. A base for a variety of fillings. On the far left, the empty dish will soon hold Beef Bulgogi. Clockwise from there, Coronation Chicken, Tuscan White Bean and Tuna Salad, Caprese Salad.
I wasn’t “in the mood” for salad. I wanted to do something different with the beautiful, big, broad leaves. Lettuce wraps, though I think we should call them something else. I read someone call them lettuce sandwiches. Horrible! Sandwiches involve slices of bread, period. Wraps generally involve a flat and flexible bread like tortillas, pita, or lavash, the thin bread described as “Caucasian” often used in making shwarmas. So, when you make a finger food whose delivery system is lettuce, be it endive, be it Romaine, be it whatever we oughta call them………..we oughta call ’em,……….call ’em…………..leaves, cups. What about Green Nymphs?
Green Nymphs have been around for at least 10,000 years, originating in Southeast Asia. The most popular ones in Asia generally feature a rich, spicy, meat dish. A lot of Thai dishes like larb, or Vietnamese Imperial Rolls are typically served with slivered carrot, cucumber, spring onion, and cilantro, the rich meat item all in a large lettuce leaf, and down the hatch! I chose the popular South Korean dish, Bulgogi. Bulgogi literally means fire meat, and describes an ancient dish of at least originally grilled marinated thinly sliced beef. I had flank steak. Sidebar, is there a better cut for stir-frys, and things of this nature? Cutting across the grain, the meat is so sweetly tender. It has been sopped for hours in a scandalous concoction of tons of juicy ginger, creamy garlic, sesame seeds, roasted sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, sugar, black pepper, and an almost revolting amount of soy sauce. Almost, but not quite. Once the beef has taken on this flavor, I toss the whole kit and kaboodle into the searing hot wok. Sizzle and serve.
Two cookie people, after an unfortunate encounter with a steamroller. A platter of biscochitos. They are actually the official cookie of the state of New Mexico, one of only two states with such a thing as an official cookie. I’m not going to tell you what the other state is. Look it up, poindexter. What I will tell you about Biscochitos is that they allegedly date back to the Battle of the Puebla in 1862, a battle that is recalled on the holiday Cinco de Mayo. These cookies are usually served then and Christmas. What about these cookies made me happy? Well, first they include my homemade candied orange peel, which I made in February. It sparkles away in these cookies, rich with anise seed and cinnamon. They are typically served with Coffee, I chose to have mine with the rich spicy cocoa I mentioned at the start. Dark chocolate, orange peel, cinnamon, chili, anise, butter, cream. Perfect on a cold windy night like this. Yes, my friends, the world has moved, the weather is unsettled, the skies have turned, and the winds of change are swirling all around.
There were once three tomatoes. They were planted in three different beds on three different farms entirely separate from one another. Now these three tomatoes, having not ever seen each other weren’t aware of each others existence, but they all found their way off of vines, into crates, onto trucks, and into the farmers markets. A young man was gifted one of these tomatoes by a dear neighbor who knew that he loved them. The other two he’d purchased himself from two different vendors. Suddenly, there they sat, three stranger tomatoes, on one kitchen counter.
The young man, having absolutely nothing else going on in his life, decided to taste the three tomatoes separately to see if he could tell a difference between them. He took a sharp paring knife in his hand and swiveled out the stem of each tomato. He sliced each almost perfectly globe round deep red dry farmed Early Girl into thick slices and dropped a few grains of salt on each. He picked up the first slice, the one that had been the gift.
The flavor was so unsettling, the young man suddenly wondered if there weren’t something wrong with his tongue. For, unless he was mistaken, he could have sworn that he’d just licked the inside of a public swimming pool. It tasted so strong of chlorine, he had to spit it out, which he did as a projectile, into the sink for all to see. Horrible and horrified, the young man poured himself a glass of water, swirled and spat a few times before trying the next tomato.
Puzzled and dismayed, our young hero picked up the slice of the second tomato. He cautiously took a bite. It, too, tasted like chlorine, though less so. It was really bad. At this point, the young man worries that something is off with his palette. He tries the third tomato. It didn’t taste like chlorine, but definitely had the aftertaste of cabbage. The young man turned to his neighbor and asked to try the tomato slices. The neighbor confirms that yes, the tomatoes taste off and overly vegetal. Yes, a little chemically. Well, this won’t do. Why do these three tomatoes taste so bad in the same way? What was our poor young super hero to do?
He made Tomato Basil soup, which tasted really good and there was nothing wrong with it at all.
What’s the moral of the story? I don’t know, I guess there isn’t one.
BingoFest 