Eyes on the tomatoes

In November I, like a true enough Bear, retire to my lounge chair and sleep, a bit fitfully, until March. I suspect the politicians know this, and steal past me as I drowse, on the first Tuesday of the harvest home, to wreak their horrors. 

The kale and chard have settled in to await their first real frost and regain a measure of edibility. They're all right as they are, though.

There are yet more than a thousand apples still in the trees. They're no longer prime, except for the Granny Smiths, but I've done all I can for them. I mostly halve the drops for the hens, and can expect to do this right into the holidays.

 
 I plan to make a tomato sandwich with the last fresh tomatoes. The Rutgers have gone the way of all flesh, but the Romas often survive quite a long while, even lying on the ground, so I have picked up some of the relicts and am en route to the kitchen. 

The little basket on the chain above the stove is drying mushrooms. It's not nearly as close to the chimney as it may appear. Eyes on the tomatoes, 'kay?

:::

Even when you are making a broth of coarse greens, do not arouse an attitude of distaste or dismissal. Even when you are making a high-quality cream soup, do not arouse an attitude of rapture or dancing for joy. If you already have no attachments, how could you have any disgust? Therefore, although you may encounter inferior ingredients, do not be at all negligent; although you may come across delicacies, be all the more diligent. Never alter your state of mind based on materials. People who change their mind according to ingredients, or adjust their speech to the status of whomever they are talking to, are not people of the Way. -- Dogen

 

Politicians take note.