Thanks and hope for peace and pumpkins

 

This was to be my Happy Thanksgiving Day blog, but somehow kids, a turkey, harvesting and a couple of Jack-O-Lanterns waylaid it.

And for that I was thankful. 

In this corner of our world, many of us are blessed with enough or too much. Compared to many other parts of the larger world, where too many things are whizzing through the air to destroy homes and lives, most of our lives are peaceful. And for this we gave thanks this past weekend. And we had those in our hearts who live where there is no peace.

I also give thanks for the autumn season, bookended by tomatoes and pumpkins. It’s a funny thing, but I realized how much the people in our community that we don’t know add to our lives. Let me explain. We have enjoyed making our own tomato sauce every year from our own tomatoes and the bushel or two that we buy. This year’s tomato buying expedition featured some interesting characters that wouldn’t be out of place in a cheesy Italian opera. I can just hear a tenor belting out, “Pomodori! Pomodori!” (tomatoes) in full voice.

“The truck is on its way,” we were reassured when we phoned the store. An older couple was ahead of us when we arrived. They had been there over an hour, and were having a couple of double espressos—to steady their nerves I presume. Suddenly a large truck decorated with pictures of giant luscious tomatoes drove by us. We were closer to our goal! Everyone’s spirits lifted; cheers were heard. I talked to the fellow standing next to us. By the time we left, we had found out all about his family’s annual tomato sauce production—in detail. He whipped out his phone: I saw the inside of his garage, the portable burner with the giant pot, the giant wooden stirring spoon and bushels of tomatoes. I think there were basil plants lurking nearby. His family swears by the machine method. An electric machine—no hand cranking required. With this method, boiled tomatoes are passed through the tomato squashing machine to separate out the seeds and skins. Our household, however, has moved on, become modern we like to think, putting the tomatoes in a blender so the sauce contains seeds, finely chopped up skins and all those wonderful vitamins. I have noticed some slight tensions between the ‘seeds’ versus ‘no seeds’ factions —as in, “I hate seeds in the sauce”, but I am happy to report that things have remained civil so far, both in our own family and with our fellow tomato-seeker.

Adding to the opera was the Nonna we spotted protectively hovering over the six bushels of pomodori she had managed to nab. A mother hen protecting her chicks from all comers could look no fiercer. You do not safely come between an Italian Nonna about to make tomato sauce and her bushels.

But six? 

“Three bushels for me”, she explained, “and three for my fren’.”

After watching the drama around us, our own experience was anticlimactic. I guess even operas have to have some down time. The two bushels were loaded into our trunk and with a bushel from the garden, we ended up with 37 Mason jars of fresh tomato sauce. 

                                                   

But soon after we wash the tomato spots off the kitchen, our house becomes littered with pumpkin seeds. Markham Fair is to blame. For years, my daughter and I have had a friendly rivalry, each hoping to get that big red rosette in the “Carve a Jack-O-Lantern’ class. My daughter has achieved this more than once; for me, it is, alas, a distant dream. We start thinking about pumpkin designs once summer is barely half over. Anybody visiting our homes is sworn to secrecy should they inadvertently overhear any whispered plans. This year I even carved a practice pumpkin a couple of days ahead as a template for the ‘real’ one.  We carted the completed masterpiece, with the legs carefully placed to one side, to the Fair in a bushel.

As is our custom, on the Saturday of the Markham Fair, we ran into the  Homecraft Building first. But—groan—history had repeated itself. My daughter received a third place ribbon for her excellent pumpkin, beating out my no ribbon. The loser—that’s me—has to buy the winner—that’s her—our favourite French fries at Rose Family Farm, north of town. I feel I can handle that!

And I am thankful that I can look forward to doing this again next year.