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

We Needn't Be Anything but Together

Time together falls through our fingers, but always leaves us something to hold. We take our bodies from the routine, from the actions we're told to do, and do what we want with the ones we love the most. We sleep in or wake early, and wake not to a rush, but to one another and the chance to catch the crisp of summer morning. We meet the cusp of Autumn when the sun's gone and citronella illuminates the laughter of good and old friends-- a sound not heard enough.

I'm always overcome with inspiration when Laura comes or I go to her. The cinnamon red of a sunset walk, the drizzling rain at Daddy's wood shop, the holding and comparing of hands-- who's got whose? The past ten days have once again proved rejuvenation with the changing backdrop of the Outer Banks to the Yadkin Valley to our very own dogwoods and pines. While we grow and are growing into our adult selves, we irresistibly enter our bubble built with giggles and silly voices. The best parts of us never grow old (we are learning).

So shall we let the homemade pizzas, Sanderling sightings, Italian grapevines, washcloth lessons, Swan Creek cartwheels, chicken stew, and Blueberry Yum-yum sink into our toes as we take our post vacation steps.

And to satisfy your viewing pleasure:

Sunset at Atlantic Beach

Sipping Vermentino, resting our eyes on the Brushy Mountains

Enjoying the chicken stew in Swan Creek

A cute couple of pizza makers!

A circle of good and old friends.

Bike Rides and a Big Pot of Beans

Recently, I've learned a couple of things. One: if you make a big pot of beans, plan ahead. Heaven knows how you'll react when your tastebuds tire of the usual partnership with rice. And two: when a good friend visits, she may yank your perfectly capable (neglected) bike out of storage, lather its chain with canola oil, and bump along next to you down the sidewalk and onto lakeside trails speckled with Canadian Geese. Prepare your face for lots of grinning.

So, first thing's first: beans. One morning, I spent precious before-work-minutes consoling the beans before their eight hour soak. "Don't worry when you get plump. It's just water weight!" They seemed reassured and off to work, I went. Days later, after lunches of beans, couscous, and salsa failed to excite my palate, I rummaged the internet for a veggie burger recipe, and hurried home with mushrooms, green and yellow onions, garlic, and cumin to add to my squashed beans. Later, I was throwing patties on hot oil like a frying pro and my apartment took on the smell of the State Fair. However, my burgers didn't firm up like burgers should. I figure an egg will do the trick, next time. So tell me, dear readers, what would you do with the leftover beans? And please, don't say, "Stuff them down the disposal."

And secondly: my dear friend Amanda was passing through Raleigh one evening with her bike in tow. We unlocked my storage closet and carried the bike that once carried me in college from class to class into my living room. The real world (in its time-guzzling way), had worn hard on the bike's mojo, and its resuscitation ensued. Helmets strapped, tires pumped, and little-kid-anticipation engaged, we hit the road. And I tell you, no matter how concreted, how polluted, how humid-- every place is prettier on a bike. There are no windows to roll up, no volume to control, no gas to pump. Only low hanging wisteria vines to dodge, Canadian Geese to weave through, and people (yes, people) to smile at, talk to, or pass over a piece of bread to throw at hungry ducklings.


So let me ask you this: what possession in your closets could you carry into the light and give a little mouth-to-mouth? Paint brushes? Kayaks? Potter's wheel? Sometimes it takes a good friend to push you into new territory, but really, it's just important to make sure what you own, you use, and also that what you own, doesn't own you. I say this loudly to myself as I consider airing out the tent I don't use enough amongst mountains I don't see enough with the people I could never love enough. Sappy enough?

Time to eat more beans!


xxx Corrie Lynn

Building A Nest In Goldfinch Barn

Perhaps my art professor was right a few years ago when he hinted that my work was too literal. Today I lusted after a cream mixing bowl in a department store, a bowl with little birds dancing around the rim. I promptly sent a text message to my sister expressing my alarm at this new heartache (at the same time emitting faint yet audible puppy dog whimpers). Five minutes before the bowl incident I was surreptitiously photographing a packet of notecards adorned with what? Birds again.

A little while later I was told I was nesting.

This is only a few days after my unbridled excitement following a forage on the internet for a new duvet cover. I found one, after many months of sporadic searching, one which totally fit my current temperament. It has a sky blue background, with blouzy pink and red roses, to follow many seasons of solids and stripes.

Perhaps it is all due to our entrance into a new era. Not pregnancy. A new era in our conversion of a stone barn into a comfortable place to dwell.

Four years ago we decided to move an hour inland and upland from the North Sea coast. We purchased a farm building attached to a cottage after recognizing the potential of the place. Our thoughts were - put some work in and give the structure a makeover. “Some work” became an understatement. Our barn, christened Goldfinch Barn, was a stone shell ready for a renaissance.

Presently we are able to see a little luminance at the end of one heck of a tunnel. Hence the time is ripe to laugh about some of the conditions we have lived through, by choice. There was a time when we had black walls, covered in a damp-proof membrane of sticky tar. This was not inviting and was definitely not a wipeable surface. Nonetheless it was great mechanism to trap free-flying cat fur and feeble insects.

For several years I lived without a sink in my kitchen and for even longer I have slept in a room with no natural light. I suppose it’s no surprise that friends/family staying over have said they’ve enjoyed the best night sleep in ages. (It is akin to sleeping in a cave). Now the windows are slowly opening and ushering in the beams of sunlight, some of the surfaces are easier to wipe and the rooms are beginning to ask for visitors.

So yes, it is a new era of floral prints, color charts and the delicate final touches, and I am the dancing bird.


Our kitchen, in the beginning, black walls and all, but hey, we still had a nice refrigerator! (And a vacuum cleaner!)

And now, black walls buried, protecting us from the ingress of horizontal rain.

xxx Laura

Warm Legs in the Workplace

If there's anything I've grown fond of in the working life, it's break time. We don't have a water cooler, but those of us that choose, pull chairs into a circle with a snack, a sigh, and usually something to say. Conversation ranges from Justin Bieber's hair to the writing style of Elizabeth Gilbert to the best place to eat tacos, and usually I'm staring deep into whatever it is I'm knitting: washcloths, Ipod holders, a leg-warmer.

Yes, a leg-warmer. Just one. It was a trial run, an excuse to use all my scrap yarn, and a way to satisfy my co-worker, Clay's, incessant requests for a way to warm up his leg. After months of resisting, I took to the thing, trying to make the best of clashing colors and varied textures. This is what's fun about making something for the first time: you're both a participant and an observer of a brand new thing that probably won't be your best work, but at least you'll learn what not to do next time.

Like the first time I made a hat for my (at the time) boyfriend, I used too thick needles and too much yarn, and by the time I'd sewn the seam, the hat could've fit on a buffalo. So, I took out the seam and doubled it up. Luckily, he saw opportunity in the handmade gift and exclaimed, "I've never had a hat with a pocket before!" Oh, young love.

The day the legwarmer made it's debut, workers emerged from their cubicles to gawk and chuckle at the new addition to Clay's leg. No one could walk past without questioning his fashion, and he defended it with practiced sincerity. Soon, though, it got hot (as it does in the South), and the legwarmer began its hibernation in the desk drawer. Clay swears he'll wear it when it gets cold, but I'm not holding my breath. One, because the summer's heat is squashing any memory of winter, and two, he'll be much too cool to wear it once his book comes out in November: http://www.amazon.com/Greyfriar-Vampire-Empire-Book/dp/1616142472. (You're welcome, Clay.)

Until then, I'll just sit in the circle, learn about Lady Gaga's latest attire, and add some indigo to my burgeoning washcloth.


xxx Corrie Lynn

It Was Greek To Me...

"Could you tell me what the 'Big Beans' are please?"

"Ummmm.. They are Big Beans. In a tomato sauce."

" Oh ok, thanks."

He kindly brought me two beans (big ones) to try.

For a bit of soul restoration, a change of scenery can work wonders. I (along with my hubbie) spent last week on the northern tip of Corfu, a Greek island in the Ionian Sea, in a small apartment in the fishing village of Kassiopi.

How refreshing to amble down a main street and your eyes not meet the McDonald’s logo, or ASDA (Walmart). Instead you pass Agathi’s where Agathi herself is knitting in her chair, her handiwork draped and stacked and hung all around and her loom over in the corner. The loom is put to work in the cool and wet winter months. For now Agathi’s hands are moving like fire and on this day she is knitting baby booties (Glimpse into the future CL?).

For a treat to our taste buds we did some internet research and sought out recommended eateries. Quite of few of the restaurants and tavernas presented you with a little appetizer on the house after you took your seats. One of the most memorable was at Vitamins Taverna in Nissaki, where along with bread they served an olive pate of sorts. Neither of us are enthusiastic olive poppers but this dip was very persuasive and a helping hand across the bridge to olive adoration. I asked what the ingredients were, and with a reluctance our waitress (one of the daughters of the family owner) said a blend of dark purple olives, sundried tomatoes, garlic and little vinegar (although I’m sure I could taste a little wine). This one will really test my el cheap-o handheld immersion blender.

Although in Greece we did try our local Italian restaurant, just around the corner from our apartment. It was an absolute delight. Having only been open for 5 weeks, the chef Rocco and his English partner Hilary, welcomed us with open arms carrying homemade bread, aioli and chopped tomatoes with garlic. Quickly we learned of their worry that their first weeks in business hadn’t resulted in the numbers of customers they had expected. It could be due to fewer tourists as a result of the economic climate or maybe because their status as new kids in town just might mean it takes time to establish their reputation. Either way, they sincerely deserve to be successful, because Rocco’s food was simply beautiful and their hospitality as warm as their pizza oven.

Here are few photos of the plant life in Corfu.

This one was taken near the highest point in Corfu - Mount Pantokrator.

Lemon trees near our apartment.
A few others which to me were eye candy.

Herete!

xx Laura

Behold-- The Hot Camel!

I never knew my body could crave a camel. The yoga posture, that is. I've never met a real one, but I wouldn't expect to crave them either. Although I just learned at the Field Museum in Chicago that their humps are filled with fat so if there's no food for two weeks, they'll hang tight. Life's tough in the desert, but humps help!

The camel in yoga basically stretches your body into a heart-exposed slingshot and a series of sensations tend to take place: anxiety, anger, fear, nausea, loss of control, and the occasional surge of elation. I've yet to feel that one. You start out standing on your knees shoulder width apart, your feet behind you about six inches apart. Place your hands on your lower back (or butt) and slowly stretch your upper body up, then back. Find the floor with your eyes and stay there for a bit. If this feels okay, then grip the outside of your ankles with your hands and pull your body forward, like a slingshot. Fight urges to retreat, crawl into a ball, or run into the lobby for air conditioned therapy. Oh yeah-- all this is done in a 100 degree room, populated with sweating bodies and a gym sock smell.

My yoga instructor treats the camel as the posture mecca of the 90 minute series. "All the postures lead to this one," she often says, "Just let your body feel whatever it's feeling. It's temporary, remember." She reminds us that in everyday life, we slump, we cross our arms, we literally shield our heart. This pose does everything to leave this precious part of us vulnerable, exposed, free, causing the slew of emotion to pass through. I like to think of it as an emotional (and physical) oil change. Soon, we've exited the camel and fall into a child's pose. Gravity presses on us as we tremble towards breath and familiarity.

Days later, I'll drive down the road or sit at my desk, stiff and solid, and feel my body's whispers for a Pigeon, an Eagle, or a Rabbit. But it's when I find myself steps into a new frontier: reading my poetry at an open-mic, tackling a new responsibility at work, or making a tough phone call, I think of the camel.

I let fear wash through like a flash storm, give the twists in my stomach time to undo, and pry my heart open against its own impulse to hide. Thank you, Camel. You make me want to cry, but thank you.

xxx Corrie Lynn

PS. This is not me.