Tag: tomatoes

To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

[If you like what you read and want to say thank you with gifting me a coffee… 🙂 …you’re welcome to do so here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1]

Gardens

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When I was a kid, we had a big garden at the first house where we lived in Yakima–corn, peppers, cucumbers, beans, tomatoes, and potatoes (probably more things than that, but that’s what I remember). At six, my job was to smoosh the potato bug larvae on the backs of the potato plant leaves and then flick the mature bugs into a bucket of soapy water. And I also had to get the tomato worms off the tomato plants into that same bucket of soapy water. These are the things that build character, yes? We never really had a big garden after that.

Our family split apart. Mom lived in apartments. Dad lived in rentals. When we moved to Ohio, we lived basically in college housing apartments for about four years before getting the house in Wonder Hills. Southeastern Ohio soil is essentially red clay. We had a flower garden and that’s about it. My sister and her husband have always had a beautiful vegetable garden at their home. My Auntie Lila has an oasis of flowers everywhere she’s lived. I remember fondly her place in Stanfield that always seemed magical. My Grandpa Moore had the most epic garden, one of legends–biggest and best everything. Trust me this is not hyperbole. Straight facts, folks. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve had intermittent, but intense relationships with gardens until moving to Walla Walla.

A little while into our courtship, I asked Bryan if we could rototill his backyard and plant a garden. The look on his face was the closest to apoplexy I’d ever seen. I’m taking that as a no. HA! I’m sure I’ve told this story before, but it makes me chuckle and is worth the retelling. I negotiated ONE jalapeno pepper plant and ONE dill plant. I’ll have you know I’ve had dill volunteer every summer since. Oh yeah, and over the course of our time together, Bryan built me five raised beds.

This evening as I was watering, I looked at all of those raised beds full of flowers, tomatoes, peppers, and potatoes and smiled. This garden is a love letter from him to me, and from me to him and anyone who I can share it with. I harvested the red potatoes that volunteered this year. I sprayed them off, brought them in and used the soft-bristled scrubber to clean them. Here they are drying on a towel–potatoes as a love letter.

Bryan and I used to chat about people who were goal-oriented versus people who were process-oriented. There are those who bury the needle one way or the other. I used to think I was solely goal-oriented. The rototilling request kind of emphasizes that point, but I have become increasingly appreciative of the process. The garden has taught me that. Tending a home by myself teaches me that. Change is the constant. The “ta-da” is very short-lived; it’s what comes before, after, and during that matters most.