HEAT, DROUGHT, RAIN, RESILIENCE

with a side of tomatoes & egg

Huge rain came pouring down, at last, on Tuesday night, rinsing the smoky air clear and soaking into the drought-parched ground. The next day was humid, wrapping us in a heavy blanket of warmth that was lightly stirred by a small breeze. It’s thrilling to see the garden revived by the rain. Most of the garden is still bedraggled because of the drought and my neglect, but all the different shades of green now seem more green, the nasturtiums extra-brilliant, the phlox very upright and glowing dazzlingly white.

a close-up of a neighbour’s rose of sharon

In early July, the week I was away at the Oxford Food Symposium, there was so much intense heat here in Toronto that plants got literally burned: The leaves of the ivy on the east facing wall of the studio out back were all brown and crispy and the usually lush honeysuckle was badly heat-singed.

the wall of scorched ivy leaves was a shocking sight when I returned in mid-July

In the month since then the ivy and honeysuckle have grown some fresh leaves, so there’s now more bright green than brown, plus there are a few fresh blossoms on the honeysuckle. The heat, as well as a heavy pruning in early July, pushed the wisteria to produce a burst of growth, its tendrils curling and twining up and away, seeking anchoring places to grab onto.

view from above of the wisteria tendrils in search of a something to grab onto

This rebound from the damage and hardship of the long July heat wave, even in a drought, is a very heartening thing to see. It confirms the rightness of the optimism that gardeners feel as they work with soil and seeds and plants and watch insistent life survive and flourish in less than ideal situations. (We feel the same lift, don’t we, when we watch a child learning to walk, taking a step or more, falling, getting up from the fall, and then repeating.)

If I think of myself as just one small piece of a large and recurring pattern, then I’m reminded that what I “achieve” is not important, but what I try to do, positive steps I take to improve soil, help a friend or a stranger, contribute to a cause, or whatever, are all useful and necessary. To be one among many is to contribute to the actions and impact of the many. And that’s important in this chaotic and frightening time.

a full-sized tomato I was able to harvest from my potted tomato plant, before the squirrels got to it

KITCHEN EXPLORATIONS - tomato & egg(s)

Those of you who have followed me for while on Instagram are very familiar with, and perhaps tired of, the photos I post of my fried eggs-on-leftovers breakfasts. In the summer heat this year, with fewer leftovers for some reason, I’ve pared my breakfasts down. They’re now simply one medium-to-large chopped local tomato topped with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkle of salt, and one or two fried eggs.

a large chopped tomato and one egg over leftover mashed potato, in a shallow Vietnamese bowl

There might be a little leftover rice or potato or something under the tomato, but the essentials are tomato plus egg. I admit that I sometimes toast and butter a slice of Dawnthebaker’s wholegrain brioche to go with, so I can sop up the lovely yellow and red juices and wipe my bowl clean.

As you might expect, my favourite tomatoes have a touch or more of acidity, rather than being simply sweet. Each morning this month is a chance to feel grateful for another perfectly ripe tomato. I have to remind myself not to rush greedily, but instead to pay full attention to each mouthful.

Also, I’ve discovered that I prefer to eat this summer breakfast on a medium-sized plate rather than in one of my usual bowls. It transforms the feel of the meal, more than I had anticipated. Though we don’t always acknowledge it, the eating utensils we use - our spoons, forks, bowls, plates, fingers, chopsticks - are deeply important players in our cooking and eating landscape.

simplest version of August breakfast: 2 eggs over one chopped tomato, on a plate