My garden is a luxury item I can’t help but afford because walking through the gate is my favorite form of therapy. I find more joy in spraying myself with mosquito repellant and putting on a headlamp to garden in the moonlight, than I have ever found on a date.
My tomatoes are starting to ripen and things are getting tall and lush. It’s beginning to look like I actually do something out there in the dirt and my salads are getting more and more spectacular by the day.
I’m hiding from my problems in the garden and the resulting vegetables are more comforting than the vapid attention of a man I don’t want. I had no idea that the consequences of this mess would land me back on celibate island, but I’m actually really relieved that I’m inclined to take care of myself a little instead of trying to fill the hole in my heart with some random dick.
Something shifts in me when I give my heart away and I should have known better than to pick up those casual dice. I’m loyal to a fault and I don’t know how to downshift. Once I’m in fifth gear, we’re either going to run out of gas or die because I don’t have any brakes. I’m all in, always.
If I’m your friend, I will cut a bitch for you. I AM that person that tells a motherfucker where to go if he makes the grave error of hurting you. Some people hate that about me, which is the perfect sign that we’re not meant to be friends- because I cannot sit silently while someone is mistreated. My beloved Miss Earthy went through a loud breakup this month, with her childish brat of an ex posting his diatribe publicly on Facebook. I was camping in the woods with a tiny sliver of 3G and verbally took his ass to the woodshed for doing it. I don’t give a single fuck if I’m the only one standing up for someone, I have no problem standing alone in the truth.
When I’m in love though… ah hell it’s embarrassing. I blame my Mormon roots and Catholic heart. I bake, cook, spoil and fuck the daylights right out of a man. I don’t share and I loathe jealousy… but pity the lady who thinks it’s a good idea to look twice at what’s mine. No dick is worth inspiring my wrath. I lose myself in loving and it’s not supposed to be that way, so maybe he did me a favor by breaking my dumb, overachieving heart. Happily ever after only exists in fairy tales.
I’m safest when I’m single and happiest when I’m dirty. Not to mention… so damn satisfied by all this gorgeous produce.
This is what therapy looks like, to me. Blanching and peeling tomatoes, filling jars for the winter and healing what hurts from the inside out.
I planted far too many peas this year and remembered how good they are pickled when I had 5 gallon bags of sugar snap peas. Canning is my second favorite form of therapy and it’s a damn good thing, because I have a wealth of ripe tomatoes now, too. This weekend is destined to be a rainy, quiet canning party of 1… with marinara up next. Here’s my recipe if you are also swimming in produce. It’s delicious and I love to spread my canning obsession around. It’s easily frozen for those of you that don’t share my love of mason jars and steam burns. ♥
12 c. heirloom tomatoes, seeded & chopped
3 medium onions, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 c. lemon juice
3 12 oz. cans tomato paste
3 Tbsp sugar
1 Tbsp oregano
4 tsp salt
2 tsp basil
1 tsp pepper
Saute onion & garlic in olive oil. Add spices. Combine with the rest of the ingredients in a large stock pot & boil for 2 hours. Ladle into hot jars & process 20 minutes for pints, 30 minutes for quarts in a hot water bath.