The Toasted Tomato

So there we were the other evening standing in the middle of the street. It had been an overcast day and the kids’ hair was still stringy from a dip in the cold pool. We’d just finished eating hamburgers and hotdogs as part of a Memorial Day family celebration. But now it was time to get serious and stand in the middle of the street.

The players were my two nephews Eric and Reece, my niece Kennedy, my stepdaughter Gabrielle and myself. Eric’s girlfriend Emily was there too, but didn’t want to do it.

“How far?” said Kennedy, the coolest 8-year-old in the world. She squinted into the distance, putting her hand on her forehead.

“To the turn off?” Gabrielle said, placing a hand on one bent knee.

“Looks good to me,” I said.

“Wait, how far again?” Reece asked, the braces on his 12-year-old mouth clunky and gleaming.

“To the turn off, to the green sign,” Gabrielle answered.

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I was dropping Gabrielle off at Science Hill today and realized, yes, it’s starting to smell like the end of the school year. In August, back to school is a bouquet of rubbery pencil erasers and fresh sheets of paper. Nerves are quivery and there is something metallic in the air while you wait for the bus in your starchy new clothes.

But the end of the year smells like the brink of summer. The sunscreen you put on for field day. The sweat from going outside for recess and running around under the hot sun. The strawberries, fragrant as Lip Smackers, that start appearing in your lunch kit.

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I’m lying here on the massage table, and this very nice lady is talking to me gently about my pores. The light is dim, the trickling stream music is on, and the air is fragrant with lavender and tea tree.

So I’m lying here trying to listen to this woman talk to me, except my stomach is growling. She’s right in front of my face and I know she hears it, so the question is: Do I laugh and acknowledge it or let it go under the assumption that stomach growling is too crude a subject to be discussed at the spa?

No time to answer that question though because: Swallow.

Well that was loud. What the hell is wrong with me? Since when did my swallowing get so loud? And why exactly do I have to swallow anyway? Because I’m sure not eating and I’m sure not drinking the glass of wine I should have had at lunch but didn’t because I wanted to fully enjoy this experience.

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For the past year or so, I’ve been hosting two of my husband’s best friends on a very regular basis for dinner. They’ve both recently become bachelors and are always hungry for a meal, so about once or twice a month I invite them over to get fed. Usually, they come on a Wednesday. One almost always brings me roses he picks up at Kroger on his way from work. The other brings a pack of raw salmon or a pheasant he shot that weekend. And the other day, as my husband shook martinis and they took their regular seats at the kitchen island, I realized it’s become one of my favorite things to do.

It’s rare to be the only woman at a table of men and, at first, I felt a little uncomfortable, suspecting maybe I should go into the other room so they could talk about cars and fishing — or something. But as they sipped and I cooked, they seemed comfortable enough with my presence and now I’m used to being part of the mix.

I’ve learned having men over, as opposed to women, is incredibly interesting.

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In my never-ending effort to keep trim, and in a final push to be at my goal weight for my 37^th birthday, I found myself wandering aimlessly around the grocery the other day looking for something delicious and low-cal. Probably, I should have looked no farther than the produce department since things like carrot sticks and apple slices are the only real diet food. But you know what? It’s April and the produce still sucks. After a while, the idea of having yet another banana makes you want to barf.

But then I passed by the organic dairy section and I noticed that the yogurt selection has grown considerably. I pass by this section often, and over the past year have increasingly been putting plain Fage yogurt in my basket. I find that when it comes to toning down a hot curry or adding excitement to a thick soup, it does a good job.

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There are many differences between men and women, but according to my stepdad Peter, one of the most reliable of them has to do with how we slice bread. He pointed this out to me while we were in my kitchen a few months back and I stood with a loaf of bread before me that was decidedly lopsided.

“I take it you have something to do with that?” he asked in his mild Australian accent.

I turned with the smile I only reserve for Peter because I just love him so much.

“Maybe.”

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Last Friday, my friend Sarah and I stood wrestling a helium tank into the kitchen. We’d squeaked it past the cars in the garage and now there were the six stairs leading to the house to contend with. As I stood looking at Sarah, who is as big as a minute, and the tank, which was as big as a monster, the idea of actually getting it forward, never mind upward, was starting to feel impossible. But Sarah, with her ox-like work ethic, wasn’t about to give up and with superhuman strength hoisted the bottom up.

“Ready?”

So we heaved, hoed, heaved, hoed the thing up the steps and finally settled it down on the kitchen floor, Sarah punctuating the victory by tripping and hitting her head on the door. We were both out of breath, a little giddy by what we’d accomplished, a little scared by what other injuries could have been sustained. But the tank, it was inside. And now the party could start.

Because Gabrielle Baker was about to turn 14. And she was going to have her some balloons.

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It hasn’t been a stellar winter for me in the kitchen. I usually hit a patch of doldrums in February anyway, but I was uninspired in January and now here’s March, not much better. I’ve made just one recipe in my new crockpot, the spines of the latest issues of my food magazines are uncracked, and my fridge is ridiculously clean, which only happens when it’s, well, empty.

So easily, cooking can become just another chore to get through amid a series of chores. First you need to figure out what to make, which can be the longest part of the process. Then there is the trip to the grocery, then waiting in line at the cashier, then driving, then putting things away, then finally getting set up for preparation. Even if the end product is the most enjoyable part of your day, which eating dinner always is for me, it doesn’t mean getting to it is always fun.

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My orchid Yvette is dying and I don’t know what to do. What’s more, I’m not sure I care anymore. It’s been one thing about another in the past six months and I’ve had about enough of her high maintenance. But let’s not tell her that, shall we? Yes, let’s keep that to ourselves for now. God knows she’s sensitive enough as it is.

I got Yvette as a gift three years ago, and I was both thrilled and scared to receive her; all I had ever heard about orchids was how difficult they are to care for. But I was willing to give it a go, so I sat her on the hearth of the fireplace and started giving her four ice cubes a week.

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