The Pomegranates are very touched and grateful by the support we receive from our little blogging community. Thank you all for reaching out to us as we share the journey we are on as we enter the last season of the year.
Hannah roared through New York as a wet, fusty, angry woman scorned. When the downpour had continued for several hours at a frantic pace, Mystery Man turned to me and said in his understated way, These are the times I'm glad we live on a hill.
The first night for warming the tea kettle and making my first cup of tea of the summer. Cold and damp and wet called for Earl Grey rather than espresso and it was comforting to hold my red mug in my hand as we all sat around and watched the world almost come to an end in Die Hard and Live Free.
In between popping off to visit Gran, we managed a family meal, turkey breast and a big fat steak that had been squirreled away in the freezer since summer.
Mr. Pom and I had gone to the Farmer's Market first thing in the morning and bought corn and eggplants as slender as my thumbs. The merchant said to cut them in half with stems in half and saute, so I did with garlic and honey. In my zeal to caramelize them, I managed to burnt the pot, and then with my tried and true method of cleaning the pot, which is to fill it with water and allow it to boil and deglaze as we eat, I managed to let the water boil out and I reburned it again. Today it sits forlorn with a coating of oven cleaner.
For lunch, The Teen and I ravaged a plate of bumpy, ugly, sweet as candy heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella dressed with just olive oil, sea salt, ground pepper, and basil from the front stoop.
The garden, well, the garden is as happy as a garden can be with the rudbeckia thriving in a mound 6 feet across, the lavender spiky and proudly purple, and rosemary towering in a pot dressed with an underskirt of purple daisies. The bees are so busy and as I try to get my hand in between the plants to weed, I am wary of grabby a fistful of bumble along with the clover.
The vegetarians should shield their eyes because there is beautiful, freshly slaughtered meat for sale and though we didn't buy any, I was remembering a conversation with The Boyfriend earlier in the summer when we at a barbecue joint on the Cape and I ordered a shredded brisket platter. He'd never seen barbecued brisket, and only knew it as the one pot dish his grandmother made with potatoes and gravy. Today seemed like a perfect brisket day and so I made it and wish I could send him a plateful in South Carolina.
Who could not find a pot to plunge these carrots into? Even if they are left with dangling participles!
I don't even like beets, but feel the need to try them once again after seeing these ruby globes.
Cherries as round and glossy as marbles want me to throw off my shoes, sit on some grass, and spit cherry pits as I watch the clouds.
As I wandered from stall to stall admiring mounds of colorful, fresh produce, I wanted to set my easel up right in the midst of the market and paint. Wouldn't it be a great idea to pair artists with farmer's markets? What a neat crossover between edibles and arts. Won't someone out there steal my idea and put it in place for next season. Just let me know so I can visit!
The Teen insisted that I make pumpkin loaf and the aroma caused Mystery Man to say that the house smelled like October. Once the brisket started to slowly cook in its bath of red wine and the pumpkin loaf was almost done, The Princess came down in time to ask why it smelled like a holiday.
Aromatherapy via the stove and reassurance that even if this rolling Catherine wheel of a year upends us on our heads, we will right ourselves as a family.
So we ended the weekend on the porch, everyone with their nose in a book, plates of pumpkin crumbs and tomatoes seeds scattered about the tables, and a big pot of brisket, potatoes, and carrots waiting to be tucked into before night falls.