It's hard to come home and be loving and patient and enthusiastic about anything when you feel like a dry husk, like the exuvia of some animal that has moved on to something else.
I had never really considered the meaning of the term "soul food" before, except, I suppose, for some mental linkage to deep-fried southern dishes (which I never really found very soulful during a brief spell living in Texas).
Then, last night, after coming home from another soul-wringing day, I headed out into the garden to pluck the tomatoes from their vines and pick the peppers, in anticipation of the coming frost.
|Our sad, sad tomato plants.|
C joined me and we filled our bag with big, fat poblanos, and threw a handful of fattening serranos on top (I don't know what became of the jalapenos, but no matter, I still have a freezer full of them from two years ago).
|Garden clogs, work pants and tomatillo vines--a fashion statement (the tomatillos should be good out there until November).|
Inside, we placed the bag on the scale--twelve-and-one-half pounds! Perhaps a record for this northeastern corner of the world (the farmers markets sometimes boast banana peppers, anaheims, long red Italian sweet peppers, and occasional habaneros or jalapenos, but never poblanos).
|The self-seeding morning glories still going strong.|