Turned over the symbolic stirring rod to another
Over the years, I’ve made a fair number of pots of chili. Large pots; approaching industrial volumes (which didn’t make much sense, given that my kids were averse to beans in their bowls). Still, I persisted. Opened a lot of cans along the way, because in the city, that’s where you got your veggies.
Today, a break with that tradition. I stepped out of the kitchen and turned over the symbolic stirring rod to another. She kicked up the game even more, by harvesting the majority of what was needed from the garden. Our garden, if I may be so bold. Lots of tomatoes, some carefully chosen bell peppers, oniony things, carrots. No beans, this time around (the presoaking time was not part of the day’s plan). Maybe in future. And no, I didn’t provide any ground round; the butcher’s income remains safe.
But after an afternoon of slow simmer, the supper was delicious. This whole “grow you own” is more than virtuous; it adds flavour. I approve.
We’re still in a period of seasonal uncertainty. The temperatures peaked at 20C this morning before a front rolled through; we’re now down into single digits. That’s OK. To everything there is a season; winter is coming. See what I did there, mixing two very different literary strains. Anyhow, I’d like to think that the lawn tractor (which is off being serviced) might be done for this season. Park the beast and wait for new growth. I’d better prepare some space in the garage; don’t want a repeat of last year’s trail blaze through new snow.
