The Gloves Are ImportantThis evening, I took a quick trip up to Mr. More's house, a bit to the north and up on a hill. I was a little hesitant to battle rush hour in that direction: I've had some experiences. It turned out well, though, and I now have a trunkful (soon to be rackful) of scrap oak and other things with which to practice on. And perhaps make things from. More than anything, I need to spend some quality time making sense of the basement again. This weekend, willing.
In the farm crate this week, myself and my cratemates found tucked in the bottom corner a true herald: we found our first salsa bag. In this one, there were two jalepeños, six tomatillos, and a mess of cilantro, all of which we split. Elsewhere in the crate were tomatoes and onions. It is the time of year for this sort of thing.
The food processor makes a good case for itself, in putting together a salsa. I've done that, but I lack the touch: I usually end up with a smooth muck, somehow, and while this is good for many things (marinade, reduced for sauce, etc.) I find the resultant glop to be poor for chips. I have chips, so I went after the lot with the big knife, reducing the cilantro to bits and carefully dicing the rest. It's all sitting in a tub on the counter with a bit of salt, and it should be ready to start eating soon.
The trick with the jalepeños is that they are highly variant. We've had them arrive mild, and we've had them arrive with some strength. Last year, we got in a batch of 'em that were downright upset with the world, and wanted to make sure it knew. We've learned to wear gloves. As I seeded the dark green flesh with a spoon and diced it with the small knife, I felt heat fall on my face, teasing. It should be a good salsa.
Mr. Containment likes tomatoes. I had some early girls ready to fall from the vine, and I sent one home with him. He spoke with me later: he found it difficult, he said, to find the correct superlatives. He was afraid that the attempt to describe the qualities of the experience of that tomato would only come across as incoherence.
"Oh," I said, "you had a ripe one."
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