Preservation order

You know those people who say you should grow your own fruit and vegetables because it’s relaxing? Those people are assholes. And I say that as somebody who grows fruit and vegetables. It is not in any way relaxing, because stuff doesn’t grow conveniently like a wee mini-mart. It’s all or nothing. Now or never. Nothing, and then a shit ton.

Because Nature has a complete law unto itself. And that’s why within a few weeks, you can go from a lovely little collection of seedlings to finding yourself drowning in tomatoes.

And yes, I know there are so many things you can do with tomatoes. And yes, they’re so versatile. And oooh, aren’t they tasty? Yes, yes, and yes they are. But let me tell you, when faced with a giant tub of them and knowing there’s yet another tub coming your way the following day, those ‘interesting’ recipes you're ‘definitely going to try’ with your fresh tomatoes go out the frickin’ window very quickly.

I’ve tried bruschetta, and tomato sauce, and chutney, and soup, and all sorts of stuff and I’ve been giving them to neighbors. But no matter how hard I work, those tomato plants work harder, and so each day I am defeated.

And as my mother taught me very clearly, in a world where there is hunger, it is a crime to waste food.

She used to grow tomatoes every year back in the old country. There would be four or five pots that would give a respectable amount of tomatoes for a sandwich or two and maybe even to spruce up a wee chili.

But the San Fernando Valley is not the same as the old country. Give a seemingly harmless wee tomato seed an inch here and they’ll take a frickin’ mile.

And it wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the figs. (Here’s a point: what the actual fuck was Nature thinking when it created figs?) I take responsibility for the tomatoes, but I was blindsided by the figs.

When we first moved into Tweddley Manor, we had no idea we had a fig tree. I grew up in Cumbernauld and this may surprise you, but the subject of figs in general weren’t much in the zeitgeist.

• Carrots? Yes.

• Potatoes? Yes.

• A wee sale at the Asda? Yes.

• Figs? What the Hell are they?

Also whoever planted this monster, had a weird sense of humor because it’s a white fig tree, so that means the fruits don’t ever go fig-colored. They just go a lighter green. So, even when we did find out it was a fig tree, we spent a couple of summers waiting for those suckers to go the same color as any other self-respecting fig does. But no. It took my plastic surgeon coming round with a tray of his white figs (and I don’t believe I’ve ever written a more LA sentence) for me to learn that white figs were actually a thing.

And yes, I know, figs are tasty. And ooh, have you tried them with cheese? Yes, I have. But in terms of nature’s bounty, figs are also a mindfuck - second only in trickiness to pears in the stages of their ripening process, which is:

1. Really hard.

2. Really hard.

3. Still really hard.

4. Soft for approximately half an hour.

5. Rotten.

Tomatoes are positively house-trained by comparison. So when the figs arrive you have to deal with them quick. Because everybody knows, it is wrong to waste food. And you know all those interesting recipes you’d make with fresh figs if you had them? Yeah, exactly. Once you’re passed jam, then what?

I was in the backyard battling the tomatoes and mulling over what to do with the figs, when a thought struck me: Figgy pudding. Isn’t that a thing? I could make a figgy pudding - who cares that I’m not in a Charles Dickens novel and it’s fucking August. I’m doing my best here.

So I looked at recipes and they all had dried figs. But by then, I was committed. A figgy pudding will get made. I mean, what’s the point of having actual figs if you can’t have figgy pudding? So the dehydrator came out and the figs went in.

Now, pardon me if you know this already, but basically, dehydration is the process of taking all the water out. So after the dehydrator had done its thing, what had seemed like an implausible pile of figs, was actually quite a respectable wee pile

So then I had a plan: Tomatoes. I could dehydrate tomatoes. Then at least they wouldn't be taking over. And it worked like a dream. I’m still navigating the timing in order to have chewy rather than downright crunchy - I mean who needs a crunchy tomato apart from a raving lunatic? - but overall it’s been a success.

There’s something fascinating that happens when you take the water out of stuff. It’s like you can really see how it’s formed.

I guess it’s like the vegetable equivalent of finding out who people really are by how they behave in restaurants. Because, the way that someone talks to the server in a restaurant, is who that person really is. For good or for bad.

Back in the day, I remember being in quite a fancy restaurant back in the old country and the server telling me the special of the day was a warm chicken salad with sun-dried tomatoes. And I had nodded sympathetically and asked the server if their fridge was broken. And they had looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

Because yes, I am a moron. But in my defense, how was I meant to know? When I was a kid, food was either hot or cold. Not warm. And stuff was generally boiled, fried, or baked. Not bloody sun-dried. And there wasn’t even a sniff of a fig.

My kids like pizza huts and donut stores. They’ll eat eggs from our chickens and honey from our bees. But when it comes to fruit and vegetables, we’re generally on our own. Sometimes I’ll grab one of my kids’ pals and make them take home a wee bag of veg for their parents.

My kids tell me their friends think I’m this mental Scottish woman. I’m good with that. My friends thought my mum was a bit mental too.

Back in the day, my Mum grew a tiny little seedling from an orange pip. It lived in a pot by the window in the living room. I think it might have grown to about 5 inches and had four or five leaves. She had plans to grow a full orange tree which was an ambitious idea, bordering on lunacy considering we were in the west coast of Scotland.

She really loved the idea of having a fruit tree. Once we were on vacation to Malta and my mother was overjoyed because the place we were staying in, had a plum tree in the yard. First thing in the morning she’d go out and pick some. And she’d enthusiastically say, ‘What a wonderful thing it is to be able to gather your own plums in the morning.” And my Dad, with a glint in his eye, would stifle a laugh, and wisely say not one word.

It was long ago and yet not long ago. Feeling foreign is not just about living in a different country from the one where you grew up. It’s about remembering a time that maybe nobody else remembers and moments that aren’t replaceable.

It was my mother’s birthday yesterday. She died in 2008. Just over a month after I moved over to the US. I don’t like to think about it. I like to think about anything else. I like to pretend that it’s just a day like any other day. Except it’s not.

So yesterday there was no cake or candles.

No cards. No gifts. No cuddles. No, ‘I love you’ and no ‘I love you too.’

There were no phone calls. No questions about what I was up to, or if I was eating properly.

There were memories. Only memories. Because that is all that is left. My grief is no longer fresh. It is dehydrated. Once the tears have passed, all that’s left is who you are.

So, even though it’s August and I’m not some extra from Oliver Twist, I made a fucking figgy pudding. And I know - wholeheartedly - she would have approved.

Till next week

xo

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