Browsing Archives for August 2009

Is it just me…

 

 

 

 

 

Or does anyone else think that sunflowers seem just a little more human than your typical flower…

 

 

 

 

 

Is she bowing to her partner?  Or is she critically assessing the shovel’s shoes?

 

 

 

I am a Kansas girl and I love sunflowers.  I can’t help it.  If Dinosaurs came from birds… and people came for apes… than Kansans came from sunflowers.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunflowers speak of my state, my home, my high plains stompin’ grounds like no other plant ever could…

Well… except maybe wheat… but wheat doesn’t seem like it’s alive does it?

Or does it?

 

 

 

Even on bad hair days…

 

 

 

 

 

The sunflower seems to look at you…

 

 

 

 

And watch you as they follow the sun throughout the day…

 

 

 

 

They make me feel like someone is listening to me when I am muttering to myself in the garden.

 

 

 

Helping me on my way to a full blown nutter.  

Send a bouquet of sunflowers to the asylum for me will you?

They will make me feel not so all alone.

My boys in their natural habitat.

Buried in dirt.

Finding dead things.

Soaking up the sun.

And I got to see my husband in his sexy orange swim trunks again.

Who makes orange swimwear for men?

Who does this?

And why?

Why would they do this?

Is it swimwear with a built in warning?

Is it swimwear to increase your visibility to other swimmers?

Is it swimwear for deer hunters?

Is it swimwear for highway workers in flood conditions?

Why orange?

Dear God!

Why?

I planted some sunflowers in a small corner of my garden.  I did this because someone suggested it right here… on my blog.  

I thought it was such a good idea.  I bought a few packets of seeds… mammoth sunflowers, and red sunflowers, and ‘normal’ sunflowers… if there are ‘normal’ sunflowers.  After I planted the small corner of my garden, I still had seeds left over, so I planted some by the barn, and then I planted some by the house, and then I scattered a few down by the pond.  I could water the ones in the garden and the ones by the house but the others had to fend for themselves.

 

 

 

Then I took a couple of packets of Zinnia seeds and planted them in the garden, and by the barn and down by the pond too.

The Zinnias mostly had to fend for themselves as well.

 

 

 

And well… they did.

They grew and they bloomed and they did just fine.

 

 

 

Mother Nature took care of them.  

I may have watered them when they were especially young and helpless, but after that, they were on their own.

 

 

 

 

 

They have done beautifully.  

They don’t really seem to need me at all.

I have to tell you… that is not a bad trait in a flower at all.

Except that I would like to think that I was somehow a part of it…

Well… I guess I did poke the seeds in the dirt.

And I did look out for them occasionally.

And I did rejoice when they bloomed.

For the truly rare flower…

This is all they need.

I recently finished reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith.  At first, I found myself highly entertained by the book.  That is to say, I found myself feeling like I should be highly entertained by the book.  In reality, I kind of felt like I used to feel in high-school when all the cool kids were laughing about something and I had no idea why they were laughing, but I laughed anyway because I wanted to feel cool and like I was a part of their group too.  As I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I found myself wondering if I was laughing at the story because I really thought that zombies roaming the English countryside side by side with Lizzy and Jane was funny or was I laughing because I wanted to be part of the supposed coolness of messing with a classic love story by loading it up with zombie attacks?  

Over the past ten years, Jane Austen has broken the bonds of PBS and become firmly entrenched in pop culture with one blockbuster film after another starring the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow and Keira Knightley.  It would follow that a pardoy of one of Jane’s books, if done properly, would be even cooler than the actual books themselves.  What is even more interesting is that Jane was often parodying the romantic books of her time when she wrote.  So Seth Grahame-Smith really wrote a parody of a parody with his version of the classic Pride and Prejudice.  And when the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies comes out in film, it will be a parody of a parody of a parody.  Just try and absorb that little factoid why don’t you!

The book is clever.  The idea is clever and it truly has some hilarious lines and a few absolutely hysterical scenes in it.  In a nutshell, Seth Grahame-Smith hijacks Austen’s entire book and inserts zombies into it at obvious intervals.  As strange as it seems, there are obvious intervals for zombies to arrive on the scene in Pride and Prejudice.  The recent dead are a good fit for Austen’s books, especially if you have a high tolerance for the utterly ludicrous, which I do.  

I found a quote from co-author, Grahame-Smith that sums it all up as he refers to Pride and Prejudice and it’s innate ability to incorporate the un-dead.  He says…“You have this fiercely independent heroine, you have this dashing heroic gentleman, you have a militia camped out for seemingly no reason whatsoever nearby, and people are always walking here and there and taking carriage rides here and there . . . It was just ripe for gore and senseless violence. From my perspective anyway.” 

I don’t want to give away the story… as there is really not much to give away.  Just picture your favorite version of Pride and Prejudice, add a few zombie attacks and a few well placed round house kicks from Lizzy and her sisters during a walk in the woods, an evening ball, or an afternoon tea and you will have Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.  You might also want to add a fierce militaristic training regime to the five Bennett sister’s lives and a dojo in their garden.  Got it?  Okay.  Now you can skip the book and read something else.  

Personally, I don’t think Grahame-Smith went far enough.  I think the book should have been far more absurd.  I think he was a mite too cautious and a mite too sane in his approach. I also think he got tired of his version of the story before the end.  Or maybe, it is I who got tired of his story before the end.  Either way you have the same result, a story that lasts longer than the actual story lasts.  

The movie rights have already been sold to the highest bidder and a film is in the works.  I am afraid that I will have to see the movie.  I have no idea if I am motivated by an insecure need to be able to talk the funky Jane Austen parody with all the cool kids at school, or if I just have to see Lizzy Bennet kick the ever-loving crap out of Mr. Darcy to defend her warrior honor.  I just hope that the film industry pushes the envelope a bit further than Grahame-Smith did.  Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem. 

In the mean time, the next book, Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters is due out in mid-September.  Someone has already put together something that is called a ‘book trailer’ for this book, which is good, because I simply can’t abide reading a book until I have seen the ‘book trailer’ first..  And in case you were wondering, a book trailer has nothing at all to do with a book-mobile.  One is a vehicle that delivers books to people that might otherwise never get to read them and the other… is a vehicle… that delivers books… to people… that might otherwise… never… get..to read… them.  

Hmmmmmmmmmm……..

Lately, as I have had comments turned off, I have been receiving a lot of truly lovely emails sharing words of encouragement, support, as well as stories from their own lives that relate to what I have been writing about recently. I treasure these letters and I will save them forever. Thank you.

On more than one occasion a person has suggested with a great amount of concern that I might possibly be suffering from a mental illness. I know that these concerns come from a place of care. I am not offended by them and am even open to the idea that I may indeed be fatally and tragically mentally ill. In fact, if it involves a long hospital stay where someone will cook for me three times a day, make up my bed and do my laundry, I am even more open to the idea. Under normal circumstances, I usually don’t consider myself to be any more mentally ill than the average person who spends her days lying on her stomach in a flower bed trying to get a good shot of the Victoria Blue Salvia up against the white clapboard house with the barn in bokeh in the background or spending the afternoon stacking up books in hundreds of different ways and then photographing them from a variety of angles or hastily grabbing a pen while playing Bunko at a neighbor’s house and writing a few notes on the back of her hand because a really great idea for a post just popped into her head.  I think these things are all well within the realm of mental health.  Aren’t they?  Doesn’t everyone do these things?  As to writing a blog where I refer my cats as ‘fake show cats’…I don’t have an explanation for that – but I think we could all use a little breathing room between sanity and insanity.

Over the years I have been diagnosed with the following mental illnesses from readers of my blog…

1. Depression

2. Anxiety

3. ADD

4. Mania

5. Melancholic

6. Pregnancy

7. Homeschooling

8. Bi-polar

9. Seasonal Affective Disorder

10. Bad decorator

The only one I feel comfortable diagnosing myself with is the last one – bad decorator.  I absolutely concur.  I am a bad decorator.  In fact, I think I am actually a non-decorator which is a far more severe and debilitating malady, from which one is far less likely to ever make a full recovery.  It is even more tragic that a woman who loves houses as much as I do, would be so utterly crippled when it comes to decorating, but I am.  If someone can suggest a psychotropic cocktail that will cure my problem I would really appreciate it.  It is crushing to the little bit that remains of my undamaged mind, to wander around a home with with naked windows, disproportionate shelves, and mis-matched pillow shams.

I do however know for a fact, that I do not at all suffer from home-schooling. Occasionally a new reader will wander over here from Pioneer Woman, Miz Booshay or my sister’s blog. (Sometimes I call these three blogs The Holy Trinity of Homeschooling Blogs and sometimes I call them The Bermuda Triangle of Homeschooling Blogs... It just depends on how ‘homeschooly’ I am feeling that particular day.) I love those blogs and the women that write them very much, but since I have never home-schooled a single one of my children for even a nano second, nor do I ever wish to (because not holy enough) I rarely fit the parameters that their readers desire and they usually drift away as soon as they discover the scandal of public education floating like a deadly white shark right off my starboard prow (if there is any such thing as a starboard prow which there probably is not.)  

As to the other illnesses I have been diagnosed with by my readers over time (with the exception of pregnancy which after delivering bouncing boy number 4, I cut off the tributary to that brand of crazy permanently). But the other illnesses are all distinct possibilities with me. After hearing a few of these suggested over the last week more than once, I called a local doctor and had him give me a diagnosis.

Me – Do you think I am depressed?

Country Doctor – Well… when you were so upset about our trip, I thought you might be depressed.

Me – Of course I was depressed! Who wouldn’t be depressed! Weren’t you depressed!

Country Doctor – Yes.. I was…

Me – Do I need to take a pill or something?

Country Doctor – No…

Me – Do you think I have anxiety?

Him – No. Absolutely not. You have zero anxiety. I have never met a less anxious person than you.

Me – What about affective disorder… or maybe bi-polar… or maybe I have mania!

Him – No… I don’t think so.  I think you are just fine.

Me – Are you just saying that? Do you really think I am okay?

Him – Yes, I really think you are okay. Why are you asking?

Me – Well… some of my readers have suggested that maybe I am depressed or anxious… and sometimes they think I’m pregnant.

Him – Why?

Me – I don’t know…. what do you think?

Him – I can’t answer to the pregnancy diagnosis – but as to the depression and the anxiety… I think it might be because you are always talking about laying on the bed watching the ceiling fan.

Me – But I really do lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan!

Him – Yes… but only on bad days.

Me – No! Actually I only watch the ceiling fan on good days! In fact, those are my best days!

Him – Oh… well you might want to stop mentioning it on the blog.

Me – Why?

Him – Because behaviors like spending the day laying on a bed and watching the ceiling fan is worrisome to lots of people.

Me – Really?

Him – Yes… it makes you sound like you might be suffering from a mental illness.

Me – But I really do lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan!

Him -  I would prescribe keeping it to yourself.

Me – Do I have a mental illness if I lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan?

Him – No… but it makes you seem like you do.

Me – But I have to be honest! I can’t pretend to be something I’m not!

Him – Well… that is another problem. Lots of people aren’t very comfortable with honest expression… they prefer for everything to be nice and comfortable.

Me – Oh…

Him – So… don’t mention the ceiling fan anymore and stop expressing yourself so honestly.

Me – Uh… I don’t really see that working out for me. If I can’t occasionally lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling fan, and if I can’t write what I really think most of the time, than I may as well slip the straight jacket on right now.

Him – Then you are just going to have to deal with the misdiagnosis from a few of your readers.

Me – Okay… I guess I can handle that.

Important note to readers – I do understand the serious nature of mental illness and do not wish to make fun of the real thing… only the fake thing. I suffer from fake mental illnesses all the time. My best cure for fake mental illness is to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan. Also Agatha Christie movies help. Also wandering aimlessly around Target and buying another plastic clip for my hair helps.  It is not a guaranteed cure, but it does make me feel better.  And chocolate… and a hot beverage made by someone else and delivered to me on a tray (while I am lying on my bed watching the ceiling fan) helps.  That is all.

As a part of this year’s garden, I planted a tomato test patch.  I brought home several varieties of the tomato plants that we sell at the Garden Center where I work so that I could discover their differences and also so that next Spring, I might be able to actually answer a few tomato questions when a customer asks me one.  

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, I also grew a stand of tomatoes from seed, and I am sorry to tell you that my baby tomato seedlings became the children of my heart and I nurtured and tended them with a great amount of care, while my tomato test patch, which I came to refer as my ‘tomato step children’, were not given the love that they deserved because they came into my life half grown and I never did bond with them the way I should have.  Yet even with my neglect, the plants produced a nice harvest of tomatoes.  The one on the far left end is one of my seed tomatoes.  It is a Burpee Big Boy Hybird.  Right next to it is a Burpee Big Boy from a Garden Center plant. Going down the line you can see two Better Boys, an Heirloom German Johnson, a Beefmaster and a Jetstar.  

 

 

 

 

 

On Saturday, I invited a few friends over for a tomato canning lesson from my friend Sarah.  

 

 

 

 

 

But before Sarah could get started,everyone had to sample the tomatoes from my test patch.  

 

 

 

Because who can resist a food sampling?  

Who?  

Who??? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just like I do with my family, I forced them to write down their impressions of each tomato they tasted.  I will say that these girls were much more agreeable than my children when it came to writing down their thoughts on the various tomatoes.  I did not have to threaten them with taking away their computer time, or ground them from the Wii, or send them to their rooms or anything!     

 

 

 

 

 

Here are Angie and Nancy discussing the subtle differences between a Jetstar and a Burpee Big Boy.

 

 

 

 

 

Here is Melissa with a Beefmaster (I think).  

 

 

 

 

And here is what everyone thought about the various tomatoes…

 

 

 

 

 

Beefmaster…

Angie – Tastes like a tomato… full flavor, a little mushy.

Nancy  - Traditional flavor, texture is mushy.

Jenny  - Rich meaty flavor

Rechelle – Full bodied, rich, yummy.

 

 

 

Burpee Big Boy…

Nancy – Not full flavored

Melissa – More seeds, less sweet

Rechelle – More acid, more water

Angie – Flat

Jenny – Tough, chewy, plain

Sarah – Not very flavorful

 

 

 

Heirloom German Johnson…

Angie – Less flavor

Melissa – Less flavor, ends blandly

Nancy – Tastes like it’s fermented

Jenny – Nasty, off flavor

Sarah – Less sweet

Rechelle – Weird finish, fleshy

 

Better Boy…

Angie – More bite to it

Melissa – A little bland, not sweet.

Nancy – Tangy (of sorts) less flavor

Jenny – Deep flavor

 

 

Burpee Big Boy Hybrid…

Nancy – Firm texture

Melissa – Sweet (my favorite)

Rechelle – Sweet

Jenny – Sweet, rich, deep, my favorite

Angie – Sweet

Sarah – Balanced and delicious, my favorite

Jetstar…

Nancy – My favorite (so far)

Melissa – Very sweet, not as firm, great flavor

Angie – Good flavor

Rechelle – Watery, bland

Jenny – Chewy, bland

Sarah – I don’t taste much here.

 

 

The Burpee Big Boy Hybrid was a favorite among almost everyone, but I really like the Beefmaster the best.  The German Johnson Heirloom was a very strange tomato.  It’s fruits were more pinkish than red and it was also far less resistant to bugs and disease.  You can really see the advances made in tomatoes right here in this little tomato test.  The heirloom variety would probably do just fine if it had a little more care than I gave it, but it performed very poorly in my tomato test patch compared to the the Burpee Hybrid which not only produced beautiful tomatoes under severe neglect, it also tasted great.  So much for the quaint heirlooms!  

 

 

 

On Monday, I hope to have a tomato canning story up.

As you can see, canning those tomatoes was a brutal task and we didn’t have any fun at all!

A few nights ago, near the end of the Country Doctor and my post bi-continental nuclear fall-out catastrophe, I drug him to go and see Julie and Julia with me. It was part of his penance for being such a blood soaked zombie from the pit of hell during our recent European vacation. I also made him shop for new dress pants which he desperately needed.  I gleefully forced him to try on nine different pairs and his suffering was so severe that he almost went into cardiac arrest in a J.C. Penney’s dressing room, but I held my ground remaining stoic, ruthless, and completely unmoved by his pain as I handed him pair after pair of pants to try on.

“Please stop bringing me more pants to try on…” he begged.

“Did you stop at Le Grand Palais along the Champs Elysees and let me look at it for more than twenty nine seconds?”  I asked.

“No…” he whispered. 

“Did you pause to let me wander for an hour or so among the medieval neighborhoods outside of Notre Dame?”  I questioned.

“I… I… I… no…” he cried.  

“Did you notice how I longed to walk among the breathtaking flower stalls or stop for a second and browse at the gloriously gorgeous street markets?”

“No…” he gasped… “I didn’t…”

“That’s right!  Now get in that dressing room and TRY ON THESE PANTS!”

I showed him no mercy and I took no captives. I told him that if he could drag me all over England and Paris as if I were an old, worn out, duffel bag slung over his shoulders, than he could damn well spend a Sunday afternoon with me at the gates of purgatory, shopping for new pants and seeing a chic flick. He meekly agreed.  After we found some pants, I hoisted him onto my shoulder and carted him into Target, a store that the Country Doctor loathes with every fiber of his being.

I am not sure why he hates Target so much, but I think it has to do with the fact that Target makes people feel joyful, giddy and happy to be shopping in their store. Target lacks the harshly lit, institutional atmosphere of Wal-mart where all the customers shuffle like the recent dead from aisle to aisle having lost their will to live the minute they passed the greeter/sticker /lady/man.  The Country Doctor does not want to be happy when he is shopping. He wants to be miserable and he resents any store that attempts to change his outlook.  He is a Wal-Mart guy, through and through.  I am a Target girl all the way down to my toe-nails. This fact alone should have made us re-consider ever making the sacred marriage pact.   I truly believe that an individual’s preference for Target vs. Wal-mart should be on all church approved marriage quizzes and a part of all pre-marital counseling programs.  If both members of the couple have a strong preference for the same store, odds are, they will avoid many future problems.  

At Target, I quickly purchased  a few forgotten school supplies for my kids and although I should have, I did not allow myself to drag my husband on a leisurely stroll though the bedding aisle because the Country Doctor was gasping for breath and had grown cold and clammy to the touch from prolonged shopping exposure.  Sadly, at this point in our lives, he is still worth more to me alive and although I was dancing with delight in his agony, it did not quite make enough sense to me to kill him.  We grabbed a few snacks for the movies and headed out.

During our drive to the theater, we had to try and stash our snacks on our persons. We managed to tuck two bottles of soda inside my small purse while the Country Doctor hid a bag of nut clusters and a pack of Rolos in one of the pockets in his cargo shorts. We bought out tickets and tried to look innocent and like we would be highly unlikely candidates to harbor twelve hundred dollars (in movie currency) of illicit candy contraband in our clothing.  

So basically even though we looked stricken with guilt for harboring candy with criminal intent and also stricken with despair for having just returned from the worst and most expensive vacation of our lives, no one noticed us and we made our way to our seats.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I really thought this film (which is Julie and Julia by the way in case you forgot by now) would have the same draw as a foreign film… or an art film… or a Miss Marple film… and no one except for me and the Country Doctor would be there. But I was wrong. We barely managed to find two seats together which was lucky given that our current marital state was somewhere between brittle to excruciatingly sore and tender and sitting apart during a two hour movie might have spelled the end for us.

The movie was great. The audience laughed uproariously at Julia and her husband’s well crafted lines. Nora Ephron wrote the screen play and it is wonderfully done. Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci are marvellous in their roles as Julia and Paul Child. Most of Julia Child’s story is set in Paris and though Mike and I both stiffened into corpse-like creatures when we were forced to look at the city of our grisly demise, it was still a stunning backdrop to a lovely story.

There is also a ‘contemporary’ story line going on at the same time that Julia’s story is unfolding. Julie Powell is a blogger that attempts to cook her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one year. Her story line wasn’t bad, but it was not even remotely as compelling as what was happening to Julia Child in 1950′s Paris.  Perhaps it is just impossible for anyone to shine in the face of the powerful combination of Meryl Streep playing Julia Child.  I could almost feel sorry for actress Amy Adams as she portrayed Julie Powell while being juxtaposed alongside one of the great actresses of our time playing one of the great icons of our time. Except that I couldn’t feel sorry for Julie Powell  because I was sickened by her.

You see… the whole point of dragging my husband to that movie was to make him suffer.  My plan was that he would see a blogger in action… a blogger passionately writing about her life… a blogger whose blog begins to mean a great deal to her… a blogger who creates a little corner of the universe for herself with her blog… and of course a blogger who turns her blog in to a best-selling book and eventually a block-buster movie starring Meryl Streep… and then as he watched the movie, he would have some kind of epiphany and suddenly all my efforts as a blogger would be as meaningful to him as they are to me!  

But instead Julie Powell as portrayed in the movie was just plain annoying… and irritating… and self absorbed… and she portrayed her husband in a manner that he did not wish to be portrayed… and she whined… and had no inner strength… and I felt nothing for her.

On the other hand…

Julia Child was strong… and vibrant… and took life by the throat and de-boned it and trussed it up in a glorious, golden duck l’orange… and she took lemons and made a shimmering lemon chiffon pie… and everyone that ever met her adored her… even the French people adored her. Who wouldn’t love Julia! I love Julia! Everyone loves Julia! She worked so hard. She never gave up! For eight long years she strived (strove? strivened?) and cooked and heaved and hoed and the smile never left her face.

And she was childless and it broke her heart…

…and then the movie took us back to the other girl… the blogger… who did not have even a fingernail clipping of Julia’s life force flowing through her veins. 

So my plan failed. It failed abominably. Instead of the Country Doctor learning that bloggers are hard working, contributing, vital people that need to be appreciated, supported and encouraged, he learned that bloggers are weak, pathetic, self absorbed dingbats.

 

 

 

 

I think he knew that already.

 

 

 

A few great Julia Child links - 

Click here for a great Julia Child article at Vanity Fair

Click here to watch Julia Childs The French Chef on PBS.org

When I got home from our trip to Hell and back, I discovered ten thousand tomatoes ready to be picked in my garden.

My mom had done a great job of keeping up with the garden and everything else was picked clean, but in the few days interim between her departure from our house and our arrival back home, they had all ripened to an obscene and undeniable bright rosy red.

 

 

 

I picked them and brought them in the house and then I sat them on the table and stared at them helplessly for several days.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO CAN TOMATOES!!!  

My one and only canning experience was a pickling disaster and I was terrified to try it again.  

 

 

Eventually the situation became dire.  The fruit flies grew so dense I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face and I could not bear to watch all of my hard work growing those tomatoes rot away on my kitchen counters.  

I e-mailed my friend Sarah and begged her to come over and teach me how to can.  She was at work and then she had to go help with VBS and then she was leaving town and I don’t think that Sarah really cares about me at all.  I guess I need to write another venom filled essay called ‘I Wish I Had A Friend Named Sarah Who Would Drop Everything and Come Over and Can My Tomatoes For Me Right This Very Minute!’

 

 

 

 

But Sarah did e-mail me instructions on how to freeze tomatoes.  It sounded very hard and I didn’t think I could really do it, but I thought I would give it a try.

 

 

 

 

First I had to remove the skins.  I placed the tomatoes in boiling water for one minute.

 

 

 

 

Then I removed them with a slotted spoon and placed them in an ice-bath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have always heard of this magical procedure, but I have to be honest with you, I was absolutely certain it would not work for me.  

But it did!  

The fates did not conspire against me!

The skins just slid right off.

It was like a miracle!

The miracle of the sliding tomato skins!

I removed the skins, cut the tomatoes in half, sort of glopped out as many seeds as I could and then I placed the whole sorry mess in a large soup pot, added some basil, salt, and garlic and cooked it down for an hour or so.  After that I poured the reduced tomato carnage into a plastic freezer bag and that was that!

 

 

 

Except…

I still had nine thousand tomatoes to go!

AND!!!!

I didn’t really enjoy peeling those tomatoes.  It was gross.  I had read about roasting tomatoes somewhere, so I got online and found a few recipes and thought I would give that a try…

 

 

 

I cut off the stem end of my tomatoes and then cut them in half.

 

 

 

 

I scooped out the seeds and placed the gutted tomato carcasses on a buttered cookie sheet.

 

 

 

 

 

I brushed them with olive oil, sprinkled on basil, salt and garlic and let them roast at 375 degrees for an hour.

 

 

 

 

Voila!

 

 

 

 

Drew and I then slipped the skins off of the roasted tomatoes and placed the pathetic skinned tomato beasties in a bowl and mashed them up a bit.

For some reason this was less gross than the boiled tomatoes.  I have no idea why.

 

 

I placed the roasted, mashed tomatoes in a carefully labeled bag, and took a blurry dim photo of it to post on my blog.

For the normal person who might have stumbled on this blog in search of a tomato roasting recipe, you may skip the dim, blurry photo part.  

I froze most of the roasted tomato sauce, but I saved a bit to try right away.

 

And then I made some eggplant parmesan with eggplant and fresh roasted tomato sauce from my own garden… and it was delicious!  I hope to get that fascinating story up very soon… but I would strongly advise against holding your breath.

Only eight thousand more tomatoes to go.