The Tribal Tomato

Mum's 'tselemente' story in SBS Voices...

Thanking SBS Voices for supporting diverse voices and stories.

Here is a piece they published about my Mum's tselemente, the cookbook she bought to Australia in the 1970's...

Mum's tselemente...

My mother

My mother is a bit of a legend.

She’s generous.

She’s funny.

She laughs a lot.

She makes you feel as if you are the only one who is important in her life, though you know she makes everyone in her orbit feel this way. You know this because your childhood home was always filled with people, relatives and friends and random strangers too. You know this because when she had her stroke five years ago, people spilled out of her hospital room waiting to see her each day. Her phone still rings constantly, and people check in on her all the time.

Mum has inspired me to write a few stories of late. I’m aware that she is getting older, that her body and her mind are not what they used to be. While I know this is how nature works, and that time spares no one, it fills me with sadness. And sadness makes me write.

I know Mum feels sad about getting older too, especially since her stroke robbed her of her words. It’s meant that she is unable to say what she wants to say in the same way that she once could. For such a social being as Mum, words are the gold with which she makes her everyday transactions, connecting with people, reassuring them, offering earthy wisdom. She talks about the stroke often, this terrible thing that happened to her.

But most of the time, she is stoic, philosophical. She doesn’t avoid the topic of death. She explains she is not really worried about it. What pre-occupies her is becoming dependant as she ages, and about her loved ones having to care for her, but she doesn’t worry about dying. As usual, her concerns are for others, not herself.

‘I’ve lived a good life,’ she often says. ‘Now, let me show you the dress I want you to bury me in…’

And despite ourselves, we laugh. My mother, who is a bit of legend, always makes me laugh.

Some recent articles about Mum on SBS Voices

Going through my parent’s possessions reminded me of the sacrifices they made

Cooking for my mother now that she can no longer do it for herself

Weathering the storm

Dusting off Parlour Games for Modern Families

These are strange days with the global crisis around COVID-19 and I’ve been feeling compelled to write it out (as I ride it out).

This is what I’m worried about as we go into lockdown:

• The elderly and vulnerable in our midst getting sick and dying, the health care professionals getting burnt out and ill, and the health system totally collapsing.
• People having to shut down businesses, losing their livelihoods, and becoming vulnerable and destitute.
• People stripping the supermarket shelves and being arseholes to each other because of (an admittedly understandable) fear.
• Getting bored and grumpy and restless and anxious and slightly purposeless as the social isolation measures kick in. This is at least something I can control. Trying to look at the positives, set up rituals, and give myself a stern talking to when I catch myself spiralling down. About to dust of Parlour Games for Modern Families; planning to watch more cheesy movies with the fam that involve 70's music, daggy dancing and bad acting; hope to read lots of books; to keep writing that novel I’ve been talking about for a decade; cook lots of improvised meals from what I have to hand…oh, and keep working remotely and finding ways to be kind to my fellow human beings!

What I’m not worried about:

• Toilet paper – if all else fails, there are leaves, newspaper, soap and water and even rocks (yes, my dad said he used to wipe his bum with rocks out in the fields). I think we will manage if the soft stuff runs out. Amazing what we are choosing to focus on in times of uncertainty…
• Running out of food – been cooking a little extra, shopping a little extra and stocking up slowly and surely for a month or more now – felt a bit strange at first, but now feels like it was the right thing to do. Avoided the big supermarkets and shopped at the smaller providers. Bought staples like beans, canned tomatoes and some rice/pasta. Been cooking up all the odds and sods of vegetables into stocks. Lots of prepared beans in the freezer. Slow and steady.  Hope that by thinking laterally and improvising and sharing and maybe even bartering if all else fails we will be good. If my grandparents survived wars and a depression, surely we can survive a few months (fingers crossed) of adapting.
• Losing touch - phone and internet means we can still talk to the people we love - not the same, but hopefully it will do for the short term.
• Staying active – put the gym membership on hold and enjoying lots of brisk walks by myself and with various members of the family (with smiles and nods to people as we pass each other at a good distance on the street).  Sun and air and movement critical to a strong mind, body and spirit. This one's not negotiable in my book.
• Getting sick – don’t want to be flippant about this but feel strangely resigned that if this happens, my family and I will try and weather the storm. We are doing our best to avoid it, as well as do all the right and sensible things to stop spreading infection but if it happens, it happens...

As I write, I’m reminded of what 4^th Century philosopher Heraclitus wrote, “There is nothing permanent except change”.

And what my beautiful late friend Katerina used to say when she encountered difficulties – “This too shall pass”.

Sending best to all to find ways to weather the storm.

Mission impossible

The shop is filled with oversized wine barrels and old fashioned wicker baskets; strange-looking sausage casings and sharp-bladed slicers; and all manner of equipment to make and bottle your own sauce. My husband chanced on this place on the dusty outskirts of suburbia a few weeks back. I’m out here to sus out the tomato situation. We're going to make passata.

This place would have once been rocking at this time of year as older Italians and Greeks stocked up on its wares to preserve their late summer produce. An elderly shopkeeper is chatting in Greek with a bloke at the front of the shop, but otherwise, the shop is empty. She gives me a cursory glance, doesn’t bother asking if I need help. I’m sure she's sized me up as a tourist to the art of mass home preserving. I’m about 30 years too young.

When the gent leaves, I approach her.

'How much are your sauce tomatoes out the front?' I ask in Greek.

She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she might make a sale after all. 

'$22 a box.'

Too much, I think. I’m becoming my mother.

'Will you still have some in a few weeks?'

'I can’t promise. If we do, they’ll be more expensive. It hasn’t been a good season for tomatoes.'

I nod. I don’t believe her. She wants to offload several boxes right now. I’m not quite ready, haven’t yet mobilised the family to sit over the ruby red orbs for a whole day making sauce. And I can probably get them cheaper if I wait.

A few weeks later, a date is set, the family booked in to make sauce. It’s Friday, and the long weekend looms seductively ahead. I make my way to Oakleigh, where I know there are several greengrocers. I’m there by 8 in the morning. Apart from a few groups of old men playing cards and smoking, the cafes are quiet on the main drag. I turn into one of the smaller streets to try my regular greengrocer.

'I’m after sauce tomatoes. Do you have any?' I ask an older bloke who's making a tower of eggplants.

'We ran out early this morning. The phone has been ringing hot and I’ve stopped answering it. It’s a long weekend. Everyone wants them.' He shrugs. 'You could come back next week...'

'Oh. Will I find some anywhere else?'

'I don't think so but you could try down the road. But make sure they don’t sell you romas, which growers cut off the vine too early and are green in the middle. Useless. You want the rounder, small sauce tomatoes that are red all the way through. And make sure you run the skins two or three times through the press. That makes the thickest sauce...''

I don't dare tell him we process the tomatoes through a food processor that we bought at the school fete a few years back, and that it always splutters to a stop about halfway through the day. It's not exactly the most professional of methods.

‘’Do you make sauce?' I ask him.

'Nah. My Italian friends used to make it. But they’re all dead now.' He laughs. 'That’s what happens when you have grappa with coffee in the morning, wine with lunch, and beer and scotch with dinner.'

We talk some more, but in the end stories aren’t going to get me my tomatoes. I had better get a move on.

At the next greengrocer, I can’t see any on the shop floor. I ask the guy in charge if they have any out the back. He tells me there should be a shipment in an hour. $25 a box he says. Yes, they’re expensive. Don’t I know it’s been 50 degrees in Echuca and Shepparton this year, burning the vines? Horrible year for tomatoes. I tell him I might be back later. It's going to be a long morning.

I try greengrocer number three, where I paw through a box of overripe romas. They’re cheap, but rotten on the outside, and green on the inside. A middle-aged woman stands beside me, looking the way I feel. Forlorn.

'Mmm, they’re not very good…' I say.

'No.' She sighs. 'I should have done this a few weeks ago. I might try the place down the road…' We walk together, two strangers on a shared mission.

'I don’t know why I make passata. It's so much work. Every year, I threaten to stop, but my kids won’t let me. They love it, the ritual of it. As it happens, now they've got other things to do and it looks like I’m on my own with it…' I make sympathetic sounds.

When we get to our last resort greengrocer, it's the same story. No tomatoes. They ran out last week.  I suggest we go back to the greengrocer who is expecting a delivery but we both know it’s not looking good. She says she might try Dandenong Market. I wonder if it's not too late to trek across town to Preston Market. As we walk, I take out my phone and we google an out of the way place she knows. It’s just a shed at the back of a house in an outer suburb I’ve never heard of. An Italian bloke. She can’t remember his name. He’s been selling tomatoes and wine grapes for decades. When we enter the scant details she knows, a boutique winery comes up but no Italian bloke in a shed. I hope he's not dead.

Back at greengrocer number two, we’re in luck. A shipment is being unloaded downstairs. A few sample boxes have been bought up. My fellow searcher thinks she’ll be able to find cheaper – she’s going to drive out to her Italian bloke. I’m not taking the risk. The shop owner assures me I'll be happy - he gives these very same tomatoes to his family. I pay at the till and am told to take my car down to a dark loading bay where men in high vis vests are doing secret fruit business. A beefy bloke loads my car with several boxes of tomatoes. I keep my distance. It feels like the set of The Sopranos, where dead bodies may well be kept in cold storage. When he’s done, I furtively snap a pic and send it to my husband with the heady words of success: Mission accomplished!

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images George Mifsud

Rizogalo for the soul

It’s been a month since the launch of my new memoir My Ikaria. The celebrations started with the book’s Melbourne launch, closely followed by the Sydney launch. There’s been some fabulous media interest, which is terribly affirming when you’ve been working on a bookish project for some years and have absolutely no idea what the reception will be when you release your little baby into the world.

Even more encouraging has been the wonderful response from readers. I’m loving the enlightening discussions the book has sparked about what it means to live well – these have affirmed for me yet again how small lifestyle changes can reap big rewards. Top points for enthusiasm goes to 60-year-old grandmother Mrs Poulos from Sydney. She wrote to me to say that My Ikaria inspired her to clear out her pantry post-Easter, helping her avoid eating all those leftover chocolate eggs. It also made her realise that her crazy, people-filled life was totally normal (and actually good for her). When she finished the book, she wrote:

Spiri, thank you for your beautiful book. Experiencing Ikaria through your words felt very real to me. You managed to capture the true heart of the Greek spirit and have given me many things think about to have a fulfilling life, to live and not to just exist.

 

Of course, life doesn't stop just because I’ve released a book, with family activities going at top speed as per usual, and my writing and teaching projects becoming even more plentiful. Despite the quickening pace, I have managed to keep up my Ikarian-inspired lessons: I’ve kept my task lists focused on the important stuff; I’ve still been connecting meaningfully with those close to me; I’ve managed to keep moving lots as part of my daily routines; and I’ve tried not to sacrifice sleep. Thus, I have been successfully juggling the balls. But this girl needs more than just to juggle balls. She needs to cook. And not just cobble-together-cook. I mean large-and-in-charge-comfort-for-the-soul-cook.

For some weeks now, my kids have been asking for rizogalo (rice pudding). Perhaps it’s the onset of the cooler weather at nights. Or the smell of lemon peel and vanilla that wafts through the kitchen when I cook it. Or perhaps the comforting starchiness of the rice, the creaminess of the milk. Whatever it is, they wanted it. Years ago, I discovered (and have since adapted) a recipe from a delightful book called Mamma’s Kitchen. And so, I made a big batch for our family, and another for my mother and brother. Judging by the fact that neither lasted more than a few hours in either household, I'd say it was a hit yet again.

Lately, I've been hankering for another Greek comfort recipe – Gigandes (baked lima beans). Thankfully I had a packet of these little dried white beauties in the pantry. I promptly boiled them and mixed the cooked and strained beans in with a cobbled-together sauce of vegetables, some herbs from the garden, a few cans of chopped tomatoes and a generous glug of olive oil – straight into the oven it all went. Teamed with crusty homemade bread, it’s the ultimate vegan feast. A glass of wine and I couldn’t wish for more.

Hubby George hasn’t been idle in the big batch cooking caper either – he’s been picking, baking and freezing quinces for a few weeks, making great big meat and vegetable stews for us and his parents, and bringing out the last of his homemade bread (he made 16 loaves for the book launch!) from the freezer.

All I can say is that while it’s been fun being on a bookish high this past month, it’s even more fun coming back down to Earth.

Download Marias-rizogalo (rice pudding) recipe adapted from Mama’s Kitchen: Recipes and Stories.

Read a Better Reading excerpt or buy My Ikaria.

My Ikaria is now available

‘My Ikaria is a kindly wake-up call to live a more mindful, meaningful and generous life – a joy to read.’ —Alice Pung

 

I'm delighted that my latest book, My Ikaria, is now available for purchase.

Thanking all who have helped it come to fruition, from my publishers at Black Inc./ Nero, to my agent Jacinta di Mase, to those in my writers' networks, and to the many supporters who have come to help launch the book and given me such wonderful feedback on my Facebook page - with special thanks to the many passionate Ikarians I met on my journey.

Here's the lowdown on how to find out more about the book and where to get a copy:

• Find out more, read endorsements or make media enquiries
• Read an excerpt
• Buy it in Australia (free delivery - gotta love that!)
• Buy it overseas
• Read an interview in Greek

I hope you enjoy it and very much look forward to your comments via my Facebook page, through my blog or via email.

Wishing you good health and happiness. 

Spiri

 

The alpha to lambda of losing weight in the New Year

One of the good things about getting older is you tend to wise up to your youthful, immature ways.

Like how I would drink and eat myself silly through most of November and December, and then resolve to lose weight in the New Year. Enter diet/gym membership/gadget bought from telemarketing channel at 2 in the morning. Generally, my resolve would be strong for the first few weeks in January, start to slow down in February --  then I would return to my wicked ways come March. And so the excessive eating cycle continued. It was okay when I was younger – my metabolism forgave me. Not so as I got into my thirties and forties. I racked up a few kilos each year – and before I knew it, I was tipping the ‘obese’ side of the scales.

In Australia, we are spending many billions of dollars each year on gym memberships, diets and ‘superfoods’, yet our waistlines are still expanding. Within the next ten years, it is estimated close to four in five of us will be overweight or obese.

Many of us are trying to fight it. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, around 2.3 million Australians 15 years+ were on a diet during 2011/12.

It doesn't help that we are surrounded by high calorie, cheap and negligibly-nutritious food everywhere we look – in our supermarkets, on television and on every shopping strip. While it may not be our fault that we are getting fatter as a population, it doesn’t mean we should take it lying down. 

It’s easy to understand the appeal of the instant fix diet/latest pill/light-meals-delivered-to-your-doorstep solutions. But the problem with these is that they cost money, aren’t generally in keeping with our lifestyle, and are based on deprivation. And so, it’s no surprise they fail.

So what have I learnt as I’ve gotten older and wiser about the weight thing? Here's my alpha to lambda guide on managing weight and enjoying food...

1. Obsessively counting calories, going on fad diets and eating only ‘lite foods’ is well and truly a waste of time – if anything these things lead to weight gain over time.
2. Weight gain is generally about simple maths - if the amount of energy going in is higher than the energy going out, the weight goes on – so if I indulge a little in December, I need to go back to my more balanced eating ways soon after – on most days, for most of the year.
3. Movement is key – I mindfully move as much as I can throughout the day, doing things I enjoy with people I like to be around.
4. If it’s okay with grandma, it’s okay with me – and so I mainly choose foods my grandma or great grandma would have recognised as real food – that means avoiding stuff that comes from a packet/has too much added sugar/fat/salt or that has a stack of ingredients grandma wouldn't recognise. Vegetables, pulses, wholegrains, fruit and nuts – these make up the bulk of my daily diet.
5. I try to minimise how much I eat out - and when I do, I try and have smaller portions, and stick to 'grandma' food
6. I try to listen to my hunger and eat accordingly. I'm still working on this one.
7. My snacks of choice are fruit and nuts. It's surprisingly easy once you get into a routine.
8. I'm mindful of my emotional eating triggers (boredom, hormones, mindlessness...). I don't always overcome them, but I'm at least aware of them. 
9. Water is my drink of choice. I have tea and coffee daily.  Wine in moderation. That's it. 
10. I try to enjoy food  in company most of the time. 
11. I’m learning to accept my body (lumps, bumps and all) as I get older – the best weight for me is when I feel comfortable in my skin, I can move easily, and I have enough energy to keep up with my life.

My parting words of weighty wisdom as the New Year approaches – eat real food, enjoy it in company, move as much as you can, and listen to your body.

Have you got any wise words coming into the New Year?

Why can't I live my fantasy?

At this time, of year, I fantasise about lying on a hammock with a glass of wine. There's some crusty, just-baked bread dipped in olive oil on a table beside me. I have a great book in my hand, and more waiting where that one came from. I’ve just finished hanging a sign on the washing machine that says, ‘On holidays. Back in three weeks.’ No one is wanting anything from me. In fact, every now and then, someone (my dear husband perhaps) asks me if there's anything I'd like. I respond by saying that I need a foot massage. Of course, he quickly obliges.

I lie. It’s not just at this time of year that I have such a fantasy – this is my #1 Year-round Stock Standard Fantasy. The last time I spent a whole day reading was in the summer of 1984. If I could bottle that feeling, I would.

Part of being a responsible adult generally means that your weeks (months, years) are spent working hard to get a whole bunch of things done. Most of the reading I do these days is done late at night. Instead of a glass of wine, I have a mug of chamomile (winter) or a glass of water (summer) beside me. I’m usually quite tired, and I’m lucky if I get through a few chapters.

Why can’t I live my fantasy?

Reason #1: Parenting duties

Anyone who is a parent or knows a parent understands that parenting duties never stop. They start first thing in the morning (often with negotiations to get the teen out of bed in our case), and they don’t end until late at night (GET OFF YOUR PHONE AND INTO BED - NOW!). And there’s all the stuff in between (see ‘domestic duties’ below).

Reason #2: Domestic duties

I think if I crunched the numbers on how many loads of washing needed to be done, how many times the floors needed to be cleaned or how many meals needed to be cooked in a lifetime, I would want to lay down and never get up again. Enough said.

Reason #3: Paid work

Paid work is what I do to help pay off the mortgage, have enough money to outsource occasional foot massages, and hopefully, fill my life with some sort of purpose in addition to that which includes the words 'chores' and ‘Mum’. My paid work involves teaching and writing. My work is enjoyable and fulfilling most days. Part of me wants to say that I’m lucky – but I’ve worked hard to get to such a good place. Work is great, but it still takes up time. Lots of it.

While all of the above is happening, I am also trying to keep both myself and my family healthy – for me, this means eating well, being as active as we can, connecting meaningfully with each other and those in our circle, and getting enough time out to do the things that we love.

I often fantasise about having more time out, but I’ve come to the realise that I actually like working hard. The things I expend the most energy on also seem to reap the most rewards - if the family, home and creative space are in good order, I'm a happy woman.

The good thing is that working hard means I get to really enjoy the respite when it comes.

So, for the record, here’s what’s going to happen on Boxing Day.

I am going to spend a full day on the hammock, even it hurts my back.

I’m going to drink as much wine as I feel like, even if I regret it the next day.

I’m going to get through the first of the books in my summer reading pile. One. Delicious. Word. At. A. Time.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm going to ask for a foot massage. Honey, if you’re reading this, what are my chances?

Here’s to a very fulsome, fruitful and restive 2017

 

 

 

A guide to eating more ‘fakes’

For years, I have been trying to get my kids to eat fakes. They titter at the rudely-named dish (it’s pronounced ‘farkhes’), and then promptly reject it. Fakes (brown lentil soup) was a staple dish of my childhood – along with other traditional Greek legume dishes including gigantes (‘giant’ beans) baked in tomato sauce, mavromatika (black eyed peas) with spinach, and fasolatha (white bean soup). If Mum cooked a pot of any of the above, we would be eating it for days on end – and farting for several days after that.

Legumes or pulses such as the ones above have never been a very sexy food – they often give you gas, they can taste a bit bland, and they take a while to cook. On the other hand, they’re cheap, they’re filling, and when teamed with cereals, they are a great source of protein; thus often referred to as the ‘poor man’s meat’.

But now, legumes are making a comeback – the U.N. has made 2016 the International Year of Pulses. The health benefits, not to mention the impact on food sustainability, means that eating more pulses is good on lots of different levels.

For a start, there is evidence that eating more legumes such as beans, nuts, peas and lentils is one of the few things that long-lived people across the world have in common – from eating soya beans in Okinawa, Japan, fava beans in Sardinia, Italy, to black-eyed peas in Ikaria, Greece. Even eating as little as 20 grams a day can help you live longer.

I’m constantly thinking about ways to get our family to eat more legumes. I’ve had some successes in integrating more legumes into our diet over the last year or so. Here’s what’s worked:

• I buy dried pulses once or twice a fortnight – and cook these up on the weekend when I’m home for few hours. I freeze in batches and then add to stews, soups and salads throughout the week. Most of the time, no one really notices that there are chick peas in the soup or kidney beans in the lamb stew.
• I always have a can or two of lentils in the pantry – and use as above, especially for a quick lunch salad.
• I make my own ‘baked beans’ using lima beans and homemade tomato sauce, which is fabulous for breakfast toast – my daughter crumbles a bit of feta on top and it keeps her going until lunchtime.

The process of eating more legumes has been gradual and sustained; while there was some initial resistance, our kids don’t even bat an eyelid when I place a chick pea stew on the table these days.

And for the first time ever, they even ate a bowl of yiayia’s fakes last week. Admittedly, it was a small bowl. And I told them they couldn’t have any other dinner unless they tried them. But down went the rude food. And while they tittered, I quietly celebrated my little coup.

Pictured: Lamb and chick pea tagine with couscous and baked pumpkin.

American snow is softer

‘The first person to see snow gets $5,’ says my husband. It’s a cheap shot to raise the energy levels in the car, but it works. The kids perk up, start paying attention.

It’s grey and misty up on the mountain; even the denuded trees look cold. Our 14-year-old would prefer to be in her bed, still fast asleep. Our 12-year-old is a bit more animated – the only time he has seen snow was when it came out of a snow machine some years ago. For the past two months he's worn us down by reading out the snow levels each day. We knew we had no hope when he started checking the mountain's webcam . The snow was coming down and we had to go and see, in his words, the 'real thing'.

The $5 bet is the cheapest part of the day. It’s still early in the morning, and we have parted with more than $250 – for petrol and chewing gum; hired gear and fees to get up to the mountain; a vanilla slice, jam donuts and coffee. And there’s still lunch to be bought. Last time we were here, I packed sandwiches; I remember looking longingly at other diners as they hoed into their hot chips and pies. This was comfort food weather. No cold sandwiches for us this time.

I’m the first to see the snow – just a glimmer up at the top of the mountain, only a little lighter than the grey landscape around it.

‘It’s not fair,’ complain the kids. ‘Dad meant spotting snow on the ground.’ They’re pissed off that I saw it first.

A little later, ‘There’s the snow on the road – I’m still the first to spot it!’ I gloat. 

‘That’s not snow,’ says the 12-year-old. ‘It looks like dirty soap suds.’The soap suds get more prolific as we head up the mountain.

We get to the car park. My son digs his hands into the mounds that have been pushed to the side of the road, expecting the snow to spring back. It’s hard and icy. ‘American snow is better. It’s fluffier. Softer.’ He says it reverently, as if the snow he’s seen in B- grade Christmas movies is a warm, cosy entity; a whole different species to this friendless variety.

He repeats his mantra when we join the many thousands of snow seekers at the top of the mountain. He calls it out as he crashes roughly over the unforgiving bumps of the toboggan run. And he repeats it as he grumbles his way up the mountain towards the lookout.

‘It’s cold. My gloves are wet’. He wrings them and the water runs down his pants leg. ‘American snow is definitely better.’

By this time, my patience is running thin. The anticipated hot chips were lukewarm. The din on the mountain was deafening. And the run down the slope painful. I can’t move my neck – I heard it crack after coming down too hard over a bump on the toboggan run. I mentally add an appointment with the physio to the tally of today’s expenses. Is it too much to expect a little gratitude when we’ve spent all this money so that our 12-year-old can experience the snow, in all its pristine, fluffy glory?

‘American snow is NOT softer. It’s NOT better. It’s just as cold and hard and wet as this snow is here. So get over it and start having a good time!’

There, I’ve said it. I stomp off. From the corner of my eye, I see him give his gloves a final wring. Put them back on. He soon veers off the path to find the spots among the trees where the snow is deep , where he sinks in over his knees. He invites me in. I too sink down into the soft, soft snow. Before long, he’s making snow angels and throwing snow balls and doing all the other things that, in Australia, one has to pay good money to do.

On the way home, he says, ‘Thanks for taking me to the snow Mum and Dad. I had a great day. But I still think American snow is softer…’

 

Goodbye tomatoes, hello pumpkins

For weeks. tomatoes from our garden had been sitting in a large glass salad bowl, ripe and fulsome. As I used each one of them up, and my husband George stopped bringing more in, I put them in progressively smaller bowls. Finally, there weren't enough to fill a bowl - there were only three little (now ever-so-slightly mottled) tomatoes left. I didn't want to use them, for to eat them was to finally acknowledge that summer was behind us. Yes, the calendar said that summer finished a full month ago, but those tomatoes spoke louder than any silly old wall chart.

I was in denial, despite watching the plants in the garden yellow and shrivel up, with only the most stubborn tomatoes hanging onto the vine. George started talking about clearing the summer vege beds, making way for the autumn and winter produce. Then, last week, the weather got about ten degrees cooler in one foul hit. Summer was definitely over. But still those tomatoes sat, waiting on the bench while I dealt with my post-summer existential crisis.

A few days ago, I got a nice email from one Leonie Andrews. Leonie is the author of the blog Voted with our forks - where she celebrates gardening, foraging and cooking - but most of all, she honours the seasons. She told me she was reading my book Afternoons in Ithaka, and that she had tried the fig-sap ricotta recipe that I'd included within it, and she was inspired to blog about it. And thank goodness for small mercies, the recipe worked. But even more pleasing was that she went on to make my beloved 'tomato sandwich', using her own homegrown tomatoes, oregano and homemade bread and cheese. When I saw the photo of her sandwich, something shifted in me. It made me realise anew that this is what the seasons are all about. Each one has its distinctive features and joys. As if to seal the deal, later that evening, our son carted in two huge pumpkins to add to the collection already piled onto our butcher's bench. The universe had spoken - it was time to open my heart to Autumn and say goodbye to Summer.

I washed those three little soft summer tomatoes, cut them in half, and with a little flourish, added them to the fry pan to flavour the lamb skewers that I was making that night. Just like that. They turned in a delicious, sweet sauce that begged to be mopped up with crusty bread.

I felt very evolved after that -- perhaps there's a lesson here about enjoying each moment, and about embracing the transitory nature of our lives and the world that we live in.

Now, what to cook with those pumpkins?

Photos by George Mifsud. To see more photos from our garden, see George's Instagram account at @viewfrommygarden