her able hands

Okay, so more eggs, people. I mean, that’s what’s for dinner. I got home, cracked the top off a Corona and wandered out to the garden to water. It’s a hand-watering situation with the nozzle turned to *soaker* and me holding the hose dangling into the straw by the roots of whatever thirsty plant is in my path. Tonight was Cukes, Peas, Fava Beans, Chard, some Potatoes, and the Tomatoes.

Here’s something cool…I decided to let the volunteer tomatoes (pardon my random use of capitalization with my plants, I’m so confused) grow unhampered for the past few weeks, in the bed slated for Haricot Verts and Royal Burgundy Bush Beans, mostly because I just ran out of time, but also out of curiosity. I never bought any cherry tomatoes, and wasn’t able to find any but one of my favorite heirloom paste (San Marzano). If my memory serves me, I can see that I’ve got at least a half dozen Italian Giant Paste tomato plants out there, with their feathery, droopy leaves dipping down to the earth. There are also about fifty other plants, with my luck the Bloody Butcher (yuck) but I’m holding out hope that one or two might be Juanne Flammée. I’m just going to put up some more bamboo trellis in that bed and move them around a little, water the heck out of them, and drop some more straw around the stems. Hopefully they’ll survive if I wait till the temp drops a bit later in the week. Two years ago I had single Giant Paste Tomatoes that weighed more than half a pound. Paste tomatoes! Huge, I tell you, and all meat.

It’s too bloody hot (still 91* at 8 pm) so I’m not taking the camera out to snap any pictures until the weekend. That beer knocked me for a loop in the heat and I just finished my yummy scrambled egg wrap and now I just want to sit here in the chair and let my brain dribble down my neck. Oh, that’s right! I was telling you about the eggs. See? This is my brain on heatwave. I asked Chris what he wanted for dinner, hoping he’d say something like, “I’ll run down to Katie’s Corners and pick up a pint of homemade Black Raspberry ice cream.” But no, he said, “Spaghetti. Or fritatta.”

To which I replied, “Ew.”

But then he ran next door to give his mom a hand with a few things and my beer head was all woozy and I needed some protein immediately, so I let myself go on autopilot and hoped that whatever happened, it would be edible. It was!

(Recipe ahead.)

I chopped some Vidalia onion and sautéed it in olive oil, then tossed in the baby Red Russian Kale I picked up at the market on Saturday (also chopped). After the kale cooked down a bit, I splopped in a glop of the leftover garlic scape pesto and some chopped fresh Basil, Parsley and Oregano, dusted it all with some kosher salt and cracked pepper, then dumped in nine barely whisked eggs, which I scrambled slowly so they maintained some separation of church and state (er…yolk and white, kind of like scrambled fried eggs). At the end I tossed in some chopped fresh mozzarella and the rest of those retardedly expensive Campari tomatoes with the so-called European flavor that were grown in Arizona and trucked to my table at great expense and manpower. Sometimes I want to kick myself in my own ass, but while I have long legs, they’re not quite long enough. Isn’t that a great visual? Anyway, the eggs were totally local. We tossed the mess in a whole grain wrap and called it dinner.

I’ll leave you with this riot of color in the Lily bed, the most incredible color in the yard right now.

Sorry it’s a wee blurry, I didn’t use the tripod.

Technorati Tags: eggs, eat local, heatwave, Lily

Bookmark It