RPH #16 “only two things that money can’t buy and that’s true love and homegrown tomatoes”

Some years ago, Colin and I were working the Cody’s 4th St. info desk together. He had been doing star charts for some of the other employees through a wonderful, fast free program on line. Now, the last time my chart had been read was when I was about 17 and it really made me angry. That chart claimed I was a Christian and described some other things I wasn’t, yet. But when Colin offered a fresh reading, I laughed and said “sure.” So the adept took my bona fides (place, time and date of birth) and put them into the program. What popped up was the same chart that I’d rejected so vehemently, so long ago. He warned me that the middle of my house (the kitchen) is a snare that can keep me from doing other, important things. Yes, dear man, I do understand, my kitchen can eat my life when all I do is ask for some unwanted tomatoes.

My darling friend Kathryn sits houses (she does a whole lot of other things that we won’t go into now), and at one of these, there is a gardener who can’t resist a tomato seed. According to my friend, this over-planting happens every year, and the provender is foisted on Kathryn. This year she passed some of this year’s bounty on to me. But what would you do with 40 pounds of fresh, homegrown Roma tomatoes? You can’t eat them all, no matter how hard you try (this includes you Mommy). What came kept me busy for a whole week. It was an avalanche and I got out my shovel. Tomatoes are food and wasting food is a sin. Homegrown tomatoes are a gift of this great state and her gardeners. So I had to preserve all those tomatoes. Not being a canner (it’s just too much work) I did what I can—I made sauce.

Marcella Hazan’s indispensable cookbook taught me just how easy it is to make marinara. But having a recipe does not make marinara. There are basic tools necessary and, primarily, you need a big pot, at least 2½ gallon. Yes, it can be aluminum, it doesn’t give you Alzheimer’s. It must have a heavy, thick bottom to heat the sauce evenly and avoid scorching. (If you don’t have a pot like this, go get one! It will be good for chowder, chili, stew, soup and any other single pot meals.) Once the tomatoes et al. are ready for pureeing, your best weapon is a hand blender, called by some a “boat motor.” This wonderful thing replaces food mills and sieves. The only thing it doesn’t do is remove the seeds, but, not being Martha Stewart, I don’t care. (Don’t get one with a plastic head, it will crack and you’ll just have to buy a new one. Put your money down, get a stainless-steel-headed blender and go to it.)

I was boiling my fourth pot of tomatoes, onions and garlic, when Kathryn suggested roasting these elements. She said this while bringing in four more bags of Romas and bag of cherry tomatoes. Here is what I’ve learned: roasting produces a darker, richer flavor and oregano can overpower the delicate fresh taste.

The other great lesson of this adventure is how fresh tomatoes cook down. I made one quart of paste, a gallon of just cooked tomatoes and a remoulade with a red bell pepper. When all the sauces went into gallon freezer bags, there was a total of eight gallons of tomatoes in the cold place, just waiting. We have already eaten and shared four of them and it’s only early November.

All of this cooking took about four days, four days in the middle of my house. Colin’s chart was right, the kitchen can eat my time. But, it’s only once a year, and in the words of Guy Clark, “Ain’t nothing in the world like homegrown tomatoes.”

Kittens

RPH #14

kittens

Long ago and about 400 miles away, I was standing in a tiny bathroom, putting on my face and listening to Morning Edition on KPCC. There was Bob Edwards, one of the great voices ever on radio, starting his weekly talk with Red (Walter Lanier) Barber. Now, you need to understand, cousins, I’d never heard of Red Barber, the original “voice of the Dodgers.” The voice of the Dodgers (LA that is) was and always will be Vin Scully. So who was this old guy?

That particular morning, with no baseball in sight, Mr. Barber did not want to talk about other sports. Bob kept on bringing the subject back to basketball or American Rules football and that old guy just wouldn’t bite. This Red Barber wanted to talk about the dogwood that was just starting to bloom in his garden and, especially, about his Abyssinian kittens. I was incensed, I mean, who was this old fart, to ignore Bob Edwards’ questions and go maundering on about kittens. That was BOB EDWARDS he was ignoring.

Well, my dears, I have learned some things since then. One is that the “old red head” taught Vin Scully everything he knows about baseball broadcasting. And, by the time I heard him, Red Barber had the right to talk about anything he wanted to, whenever he wanted. Kittens are a suitable subject; let me tell you about ours.

Big John and Percy Dovetonsils came to our household in a plastic milk crate, with their brothers and sisters, when they were about 9 weeks old. Their mother lived in the lovely little yellow house across Morada Place from us. She was a beautiful calico and their father was the neighborhood tough, a big, badass orange tom that we called Soldier of Orange. Percy was like a beautiful grey cloud, so pretty and so empty. Big John was a scrappy little short hair, white with grey spots, who was trying to dig his way out of the bottom of the crate. Philip was taken with this little miner and called him Big John, “… big, bad John.” The bond between man and cat was forged and it lasted for 17 years.

Last December they left us. First was Percy, the grey, the best party cat ever, the slightly dim. Percy got really sick very quickly and, when he was taken to the vet by my darling Philip, he was almost gone. Percy didn’t come home. John physically was fine but without his brother, he did not want to go on. John stopped eating and begged to be allowed out. We held off for 5 days and finally, with sorrow, gave in to the old cat’s desire. He loped off up the street and the last I saw of him was that high tail going into the bushes between the apartment house and house at the top of the street. John never came back, going to his chosen death like an old warrior and none knows his resting place. This is the deal we make when we take these small animal folk into our lives. We agree to feed and take care of them and they fill our lives with love. Thus our hearts break completely when they go to their final rests. We grieved, especially Himself, and we went for half a year with only Ramses in the house and Archie visiting now and then.

Finally, when we were ready for chaos, we headed back to the East Bay Humane Society’s place in Oakland. This facility is luxurious, a gift from PeopleSoft Inc. The rooms and cages are very clean and warm. Four years ago we went and found Ramses, who reached out of his cage to attract our attention. Fast-forward, now we were looking for siblings, another set of brothers. We came into one room and found a brown/tawny tabby kitten, in his beautiful air conditioned and padded cage. He was lively and perfect and adorable and slightly upset. In the interview room his brother being checked out by a father and five-year-old girl. It looked like the brothers were going to be separated. We asked our helper for other sibling teams and she brought us two perfect golden/orange kittens (all hail the workers at Oakland Humane). These kittens would be held and but would not purr. They didn’t like us and we were ok with that.

But, look, as the golden ones were being returned to their room, we saw that the daddy and little girl were leaving without the kitten. No promises were made and no money changed hands, no ups, no outs no errors. The black and white tabby, brother to the tawny, joined his sib for our interview.

The interview rooms are concrete, for cleanliness, with facing benches and a play area in between. Once reunited, the kittens put on their best show. They romped at each other, they romped at us (and untied one of Philip’s shoes), they got on laps and purrrrrrrred. SOLD!

And, since there is only you and me reading this, it’s time for a confession. The good folks at the Humane Society are very careful with their charges. We were questioned thoroughly about how we would care for our new kittens, and told to allow the youngsters lots of time to get used to their new home. Oh, we are such bad parents.

We got in the house, opened up the cat carrier, showed them the litter box and where the food lived, and just let them go. No confined room where they could acclimatize for a week or two; no separation from the older cat (that would be Ramses); just, here you go guys, this is your new home, let the wild rumpus begin. And so it did. If it can be knocked down, if it can be played with, if it can be addressed in any way, it is. Although they haven’t discovered the fun potential of kleenex boxes, they have knocked down the ten pound cast iron candelabrum. I came home from work one day and the front room looked like a scene from Poltergeist, with that big candelabrum upside down in the middle of the floor.

Yes, Red Barber was right, forgive me Bob Edwards, kitties are always a suitable subject. Small, manic and purry, Pink Nose and Tawny Toes have come to stay.