Wednesday, 18 February 2015

love affair

There’s something about Italians and tomatoes; it is in the blood. They make you feel so happy. You can never have too many. There’s always space for one more plant and by summers end they are laden with ripened fruit, bent and burdened by an avalanche of red. In between there’s usually a mountain of basil and parsley. There’s a tomato for every occasion; one kind for eating and another for putting in salad and another still for making pasta sauce.


The end of summer is the time for picking and bottling and freezing. The kitchen overflows with round and red, a multitude of ways to store and preserve. There is nothing so sweet, that tastes so good, as a tomatoe you have grown yourself…


No comments:

Post a comment