First Harvest

 

Today I picked the first cucumber.  It's sizeable.  I took its picture first all by itself but it was too hard to see how big it is so I tried again with a dinner fork laid alongside it.  This is one substantial cucumber.




I was excited to see the barest color change on one of the tomatoes.  There are ten totally green tomatoes and one with a little blush of pink on it.  Pretty soon I'll have a tomato to pick.  Oh goodie goodie goodie.






 So that I can eat my cucumber in style I whipped up a batch of roasted red pepper hummus when I got home from the grocery this afternoon  This is a very simple WW recipe for hummus that I'm a big fan of.  It's zero points per serving and makes a great lunch spread on a toasted sandwich thin topped with slices of cucumber and Roma tomato, which I bought at the store today but soon will be able to pick from the garden where there's another cuke growing too.

Another thing I got at the store was a carton of chocolate ice cream and, in the interest of saving my food plan, as soon as I got it home I portioned it out into these little cups so I'm not tempted to overserve myself.  Because I totally would have sat with the carton and a spoon tonight and mindlessly eaten way too much of it.  This way I have a little ice cream and don't totally derail my eating plan.  You probably think I'm nuts but this way I can have my ice cream and still lose weight.





I also finished the Raindrop dishcloth this afternoon.  And I didn't run out of the white yarn, wasn't even close, and there I was all worried last night.  Ah well.


I worked some more on the next manuscript this afternoon too.  I realized yesterday that working on it takes away some of the melancholy I've been living with for a few days, weeks, months.  I know I sound cheerful most of the time but, I gotta tell you, it's often an act.  So I'm going to keep working on this thing, partly to finish it and partly to keep the blues at bay.  It's a win-win.

20  July--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

Brady Gallagher swore as he parked his dark blue Ford pickup behind Better Than Mom’s diner.  It was just past four-thirty A.M., and usually when he rounded the Dumpster Dicky Lenz would be huddled there, cigarette cupped in his shaky hand, John Deere gimme cap pulled low over his slitted eyes.  Dicky was Brady’s assistant cook, dishwasher, and busboy, a nineteen-year-old misanthrope with bad companions and a worse complexion, but he had been reliably there for the last few months.  “Today he is late,” Brady fumed as he jiggled the balky lock and let himself into the diner.  He flicked the switches next to the back door and a row of florescent lights lit like a string of Black Cat firecrackers, flooding the room with flickering greenish light. 

Casting a baleful eye over the gleaming stainless-steel pots sitting cold on the burners, Brady hung his jacket on the peg just inside the office door and got the coffee started.  He had learned in his twenty-three years as a navy cook that nothing got done without a generous amount of coffee.  Brady’s coffee could put hair on your chest in the morning and strip paint by closing time.  Once the tarry liquid was gurgling into several pots, Brady got busy making soup.  He prided himself on having three different homemade soups on the menu every day.  No copping out by always having chili and chicken noodle with one “new” one, no, Brady made three separate recipes each and every day, one was always creamy, one hearty, and one vegetarian.  He missed Naomi.  Brady was chopping a mountain of onions when he heard a tapping on the back door.  “It is open,” he said, not wanting to stop. 

“’Excuse me, sir?” A soft voice drifted in like a wisp of smoke. 

Brady turned to see a slender man leaning into the narrow opening, his hands worrying the brim of the cowboy hat he held like a shield in front of his chest.  “Sorry, buddy,” Brady said, “no handouts today.  I am too busy here.” 

The man took a hesitant step into the kitchen.  “My name is John and I am not looking for a handout.  I need work.” 

Brady looked at the man.  He saw clean and pressed jeans, well worn but not worn out, a long-sleeved cotton shirt of similar vintage and showing similar care, and topping it, a face trying not to show too much desperation or need.  Proud, Brady thought, this is a proud man.  I respect that in a man.  “When can you start, John?  I am short a man as of this morning.” 

“I can start right now, if you will show me where to hang my hat and give me an apron.” 

            Within ten minutes there were two knives flashing silver through the morning quiet. 

Today's toss was a random collection of small items--a coffee mug, an ashtray or two, a couple shot glasses--things I don't need and won't use ever again.  Begone!
--Barbara