You Say Tomato, I say Tomato
Today was a kind, simple day. I woke up after getting a full nine hours of sleep. I made a cup of coffee. I hugged Mama Klein more than once. I ate a leftover chocolate muffin from last night when Darrelle and I went to Zephyr’s. Then I drove to my office in the car that Shelly left for me when she left for Fuller’s summer quarter in Lebanon. Driving a stick shift is way fun.
I took a break for lunch and came home to make a pita and read some Simone Weil in the garden. The garden part was key. Yes. Good and good.
At the end of my work day I returned to the kitchen. This feels like coming home in a new way. I haven’t had the time to enjoy cooking in so long that I hardly remember how good it is to cut tomatoes. So I cut tomatoes and onions and coriander for a long, long time. It felt like praying. I accidentally got tomato guts on my toes and all over the floor. This felt like praying.
The homemade salsa was enjoyable. It could have been spicier. Still the cutting and chopping and stirring and tasting was a highlight of my day, way beyond the product. It helped me breathe out and it was a clichéd minor act of creation. I don’t think I’ve ever made salsa before. But tonight the colours of those heavy tomatoes might have woken up a part of my somewhat tired heart.
Every day I would like to get in the kitchen and try to make things I’ve never tried to make before. It will help me get out of my own head, a little. Good thing I have the Armenian market down the street. And the old men who find me the extra ripe tomatoes from the back, even when they’re not in the produce aisle.
(Holga sprocket by very miss berry)