The real Tomato Tart recipe

 Here is the tomato tart recipe I printed out and put on the counter and followed all the places I followed. I may tell all the places I deviated, but from the sound of the narrative with the recipe, anything goes. It's quite obvious I used real tomatoes, not cherry. And I used two real tomatoes from my sister's garden and two romas from Kreigers!

The recipe is called Tomato Tart. I like this, not behind a paywall. A couple of sisters rummaged in the refrigerator and made supper. My kind of people, my kind of food. Here is their tart:

Here is what I did different. I used Monterrey Jack and swiss cheese. I quite grating the swiss after I emptied the grater the second time. Enough cheese.

They only wanted the edges of the crust brushed with the milk/egg. As I had few of the fresh spices, I pulled them from the spice bottles and beat them into the quarter cup of milk/egg. Then I dribbled the remaining milk/egg on top.

Here is mine, cut. Onions, cheese, tomato and crust! Yum! Reminded me of my old Italian teacher's definition of "pizza pie"! All the leftovers on a crust on washing day. Not the same two weeks in a row. Here is my serving, sliding into a bowl (all my plates are in the dishwasher).

I'll have a slice for supper tonight, and the rest goes in the freezer for another day. It does tic the high fat box, and it was mighty good.

My cooking resembles my knitting. As useful as it is, I seldom read a pattern through to the end before I begin. It's a character flaw. I simply assume I can solve everything. As I told the wind, "Don't blow in my face!". Family story.

It's Sunday. Time for a nap. Here's a great day for all of us.

And, I forgot to add: There is a new picture up, Where the Towels Live. I do like it. Thanks.

Odds and bodkins

 I'm trying new recipes again. This is called Tomato Tart. It could just as easily be called Tomate sur Fromage. Why it needed a pie crust I will never know. Ah, well, one less crostata.

I was listening to a book on tape recently, and heard fruit "galette". Off went the Mp3 and I asked google. It came back with fruit gillette. It did not call me a dummy, as I do not know French. NYT will tell you all about it, especially if you own their paywall. 

It is identical to the crostata recipe I cut and pasted from somewhere, when I had grandchildren here. Emily turned up her nose at making the recipe, so it languished until I had to cook, again. If you look it up, type "fruit" in front, as its last name is identical to men's razors.

My Tomato Tart is a pie crust made into a well, a bed of grated cheese, a layer of caramelized onions, a layer of cherry tomatoes, a quarter cup of milk with a lot of spices and an egg beat in. Baked at 450F, which is serious. 

Caramelizing onions is a horrid, horrid job. I tried the recipe because it called for two cups of grated cheese. What better way to pass the time grating cheese than by caramelizing onions!

Some heavy duty cooling is in progress; I have not cut into my tart yet. It appears to be a layer of molten cheese, topped by hot tomatoes in a layer of custard. That pie crust is a nice brown, holding in the cheese, I suppose. The onions may have sunk; they are not floating in the custard.

I did my serious shopping earlier this week, when I complained about bringing it all in. I did not buy eggs. In fact 9 eggs went to the trash yesterday. They were that old.

Google said to test the validity of an egg, put it into a bowl of water. If it sinks, good. If it stands on one end at the bottom, OK. If it floats, Bad. I wanted to make waffles one day last week. I knew the carton of eggs in the fridge was old, old, old. I tried the test. 

The first egg came straight to the top when I released it. I put it in the garbage and tried number two. Of the next ten eggs, all stood on end. I used one and put nine back in the carton. On trash day I threw them away.

I had no real need for eggs and did not buy a dozen when I shopped. Why can't I buy half a dozen eggs at a time! Then I came across this recipe, had tomatoes, no eggs. So, to the corner store for twelve eggs.

Well, off to test the tart. I'll tell you if it's a keeper. Here's a picture of one I tried recently. Creamy spinach chickpea spaghetti. I remembered to take a picture half way through and it still looked good. It was good, though I think you better like chickpeas.

Big jobs, little jobs

Months ago Kathleen, my counselor, suggested I call Area Agency on Ageing to see if any programs applied to my needs. After a short, useless argument I said I would. Kathleen takes exquisite notes on my family and friends, my likes and dislikes, but has never bothered to write down I have been evaluated two or more times by this AAA. I am "in their books".

My particular need is someone to clean my floors; run the vacuum and sweep the vast expanse of linoleum. I had two girls from the park do it once this summer, but they're back in school. Laura came and did it once. I've vacuumed a couple of times in the year plus I've been here, but my back isn't compatible.

As I knew, this AAA has no program to vacuum my rugs. I can get in and out of bed, shower, toilet and brush my teeth. That covers their authority. We had the usual chat, and then the counselor told me of a new program they knew of that might be of interest. It was a volunteer shopping program; groceries to my door. 

I called the number given me and left a my contact information after an introductory recording. This was several months ago. I did have the satisfaction of telling Kathleen I was once again turned away by AAA, and the volunteer shopping program hadn't called me, either.

She asked me again this week and I reported the same, adding it's been six months; I'm long gone from the voice mail.

Not ten minutes later, I had a call from a nice person whose name I did not write down, so let's call her Jane. First we established I might be interested in whatever they were offering, then I helped her unburden herself of her feeling about the man previously in charge who had dropped so many balls the strings would never untangle.

This shopping program is funded by an agency Jane sort of avoided telling me the name of, but I will get it if this happens. The program funds volunteers who grocery shop and deliver to clients for no additional charge beyond the grocery receipt.

I told her I was not interested in a grocery shopper so much as a deliverer, who would carry the goods up seven steps and put them on my kitchen counter. If necessary, I would be happy to go shopping with them, and pay for the groceries, if that person also returned to my home and carried groceries up the steps.

This was a very novel idea and Jane would have her supervisor discuss it with me.

Which her supervisor did. It is such a novel idea the supervisor must discuss it with the agency that funds them, and get back to me. That hasn't happened yet.

In the meantime, the Christmas Cactus cutting I started rooting in January was overdue to leave its jelly jar home. It's in the new pot, but consigned to the deck rail, at least while overnight temps hold.

The potting soil, when I went to the shed and opened the bag, exploded with tiny little sugar ants, as my mother called them. Bazillions of them, running up my hands and down the bag. I filled another pot with soil to bring back to the deck, and left the bag wide open...like the little devils would look to the wide world in preference to a handy bag of fine potting mix.

I potted up the cactus, shooing away a lot of ants. Alright, I smooshed a few, too. Right now I'm torn between observing for a lack of ants (and I've seen none the last two days), a dip in an incredibly mild solution of detergent in water, or a trip to the hardware store for the final solution. Advice welcome.

Sunday sunshine

Yesterday, at my desk, by the window, I became conscious of a heat pack on my shoulder and back. I snuggled into it, tipped my head a bit in, just to spread more of the soothing heat around.

Then I thought, "if this is the window, even better the door," and I was off to the door. How right I was! Heat enhanced through the glass panes. I went out. I sat on the bench and felt the heat seeping in from those generally uncomfortable metal slats.

Just lolling about never works for me, sadly. I went back in and looked for a container to hold a job I had in mind.

For the next hour I gathered seeds from the salpiglosis. 

Or hope I did. They don't resemble the seeds Deb sent me. To be safe, I'll buy a packet of seeds, come spring. 

I spent two hours or more on that little deck and hard bench, heating myself in the sunshine. The temperature barely was sixties, but the sun was glorious. 

Eventually I came in for a late lunch, left the sunshine outside for everything out there to enjoy.

I set to weaving after lunch. I had to tie the warp back to the cloth beam, do some idle weave to take up the tie on V's, then weave a bit I can use to cut off the idle weave.

If I've never illustrated this part, here it is. The towel warp is tied to a metal rod that runs the length if the cloth beam. The V's must be teased into proper shape. I weave in a heavy cord (I could fly a kite with it!). It's too soon to begin the towel because it would be difficult to cut it away from the idle weave. I make a border of some more scrap thread. I make the same little border at the other end, when I cut the length of cloth from the warp.

The big V's and all the thread used to straighten them out and then begin is called "loom waste". There actually is a deal of loom waste. All this beginning V business happens half a dozen times over the course of a warp. Then there is all the thread attached to the back beam, up over the warp beam, through the heddles and the reed. Sigh.

Here is the next warp, started yesterday afternoon. It's called slate. I quite like it. I'm off for lunch and then I'll weave. Today's sunshine is not so entrancing as yesterday's.

On the move, and towels up to it

I slept poorly last night. Like a frozen stick. I don't remember this much cold this early. I put on the furnace. I got out my flannel nightgown. I changed over to the Flying Geese quilt my sister made, with the wool batt. Every time I added a layer of comfort, in September, I thought, "Well, that will tide me over until winter. Now I'll sleep like a bug in a rug!"

Well, Grrr and Hiss and Spit, like we sometimes hear from Elephant's Child, in Australia, where spring is beginning. This morning I stripped that bed to the bone and stuffed the spoils in the washer. When I put it back together, I added the goose!

See its little blue corner sneaking a peek down there by the leg. Tonight I'll be warm or else! Or else I'll turn up the thermostat. Please don't make me do that. I'm already at sixty eight immoral degrees!

I used to tell my sister, who was in charge of the thermostat, AARP says "if you have an old person living with you, the thermostat should approximate their age". Of course, AARP wasn't paying the gas bill. She kept it at sixty four for years. More than we ever had at home, as kids. It crept to sixty six before the end.

I made a trip to the post office this morning to mail some towels, and a letter, and buy stamps because I didn't have enough stamps to mail the letter. Jarrod, at the post office squished and squeezed the envelope. 

I've been mailing that envelope for two stamps, and was curious to have the official verdict. I know it's light enough for one stamp, but possibly not thin enough. And no, it did not pass the slot test.

Jarrod guessed it was cotton fabric. It is cotton lint, stripped from the dryer lint filter, and going to Art, the Beautiful Metaphor, where Boud will make it into paper some day.

I like seeing the towels at work. One helps make dinner, and pictures to substantiate it right up there. I still haven't seen one cleaning up a mess, though there was one in the wash. Don't be shy. Turn yourself in. Send those pictures.