Domestic Bliss and a Housekeeping Hiss

I have lived in Goldfinch Barn longer than any other abode, apart from the house I grew up in on Kluttz Road in North Carolina. Since 2006 it truly has been a love/hate relationship as a result of our choice to renovate from scratch. A work colleague once thought, when I told her we had no windows in our bedrooms, that I meant we had large gaping holes, letting the elements in so snow would accumulate at the foot of our bed. It never was that bad, but it was close.

Yesterday before work I looked out the window and noticed the late April frost which seemed to creep up the hill and stop just below our fence. It looked as if it had spared our little section of land. This made me think of the idea of "ownership" and how 5 years spent in one house engenders a marriage between human and habitation. It made me think that ownership, in the big scheme, is an illusion because none of what we "own" has any real permanence.

When I moved to the UK I heard more than I ever did before a description of someone as being "house proud". I heard my mother-in-law describe how her auntie would diligently sweep their section of sidewalk because woe betide! it appear the slightest bit untidy. On one level I understand -- this is a small island and people like to show pride in the parts of themselves and what is theirs that are on display. "Cleanliness is next to godliness"... and all that.

For anyone who knows me well they know tidiness is not one of my virtues. I usually have a frenzy before any expected guests arrive where I have to meditate and invoke my inner Mitzi (I love you Mom) to guide me to the messy places. My car has been known to house over long periods of time strange things such as brooms, socks without partners and a lone bag of rice. My mind does not work in an ordered manner. I find it very difficult to view a room in my house and decide what needs done to make it look ordered. Intense concentration is required in these situations.

After spending a number of years in one house you do come to know that house like the back of your hand. I know which room is the warmest, which one holds the smell of cooking longest and how light travels through rooms as the day passes. My time in Goldfinch Barn has taught me how sandstone feels to the touch and how it traps heat. I learned where dust collects and how long spells of rain swells the wood. I adore the Spring in these parts and Winter fills me with a faint dread coupled with a determination to endure.

For now, I am on the right side of the Summer equinox so I will go sow some seeds and get my hands dirty. I may find some time to tidy up later too. (Mom will have her fingers crossed)

Lots of love,

Laura

A stately photo of Georgie, quite unlike him.

A Declaration of Affection: My History With Tomatoes

There aren’t many things in this world as beautiful in their simplicity as a plump and fresh, homegrown tomato. I remember being a young’un, my parents fretting that my premature acne was due to the acid I was consuming via tomatoes. I must have been eating a lot of them. I still eat a lot of them. I still have the odd outbreak of acne. (I don’t really think tomatoes are the culprit). I am letting them off the hook.

Tomatoes have a fair claim to being one of my favorite foods. Lucky them! Let us be grateful to tomatoes for their versatility and their privileged position in the fruit vs. vegetable debate. Isn’t it nice to be fought over? Caprese salad, warm pasta bolognese, fiery arrabiata, the list marches on, just as tomatoes seem to in the months they bless us with their presence. It is sad the season must end, as it is about to. At least they are happy to be frozen in sauces and soups for winter.

Tomatoes and me? Our history is far reaching. Obviously the reference to acne is probably the beginning, and soon came Newman's Own spaghetti sauce, and then I remember having thick slices of beefsteak tomatoes, by themselves. Those slices grew tired of being solo and soon asked to be sprinkled with salt and black pepper and sandwiched between slices of Merita white bread, sealed with a very generous portion of the best mayonnaise in the whole wide world! (Oh Britain you are missing out when it comes to Duke’s). It wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of culinary creativity but what utter pleasure!

As I grew, so did my taste buds and I soon discovered the splendor of freshly made salsa. It must have been the joy at receiving a basket of warm and glistening tortilla chips at the Mexican restaurant in Concord, North Carolina. The one across from Applebee’s and beside Harris Teeter. Is it still there? If not, rest assured the memory is. The accompanying salsa was blended, a smooth cooperative of its integral parts. From smooth salsa beginnings I now tend to prefer it chunky. I like to see what things are made of.

I later made the jump from larger than life, fleshy tomatoes to cherry, roma and their plentiful cousins - petite nuggets of flavor gold. Small things sure can pack a punch!

And here I am, tonight, trying to make sense of the large numbers of tomatoes that have arrived from my Father-in-Law Bill's allotment (the quarters of his gardening mojo). I decide to take a hint from a simple pizza sauce recipe. I skin medium-sized bowl of tomatoes in hot water and chop some garlic to fry. After a few minutes I add the tomatoes to the softened garlic and let it simmer for a little while then add some fresh basil, a little salt to taste and a little extra water if necessary. To such an undemanding recipe I would toss in one more portion of goodness - some grated hard Italian cheese, like parmesan or pecorino. (And giving credit to the Mexican restaurant I like this one smooth and blended).

Your heart will be warmed, I promise.



Tasty!

xxx Laura xxx