If you’ve been around for the last few weeks, you know that my fiance and I recently moved into a new apartment. To say it was a huge task is a major understatement. All the organizing I had neglected for years suddenly needed urgent attention.
Shelves of books and notes from university; boxes of art supplies from and craft projects abandoned half-way through; drawers and shelves and closets full of seldom-worn clothes; a makeup case with eyeshadow specimens rounding the bend on a half-decade; cupboards full of mismatched glasses and hand-me-down dishes; a massive storage unit full of camping gear/Christmas decorations/sports equipment (and no, neither of us play any sports). You get the picture.
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Did I mention I am obsessed with tomatoes? Case in point: I can my own.
Yes, I spent a
small … well… actually rather large-ish… fortune on organic, locally grown tomatoes. Twenty beautiful pounds of them. The reddest ones I’ve ever seen. Not a blemish in sight.
Perfect taut skin.
Heavy, round and firm.
Sweet and juicy.
Yes, we’re still talking about tomatoes, boys. Ahem.
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I was surprised that when I announced to people my intention to pickle carrots, there were some who thought this was not a good idea. Within my circle of friends, there are some fairly fervent pickled-carrot lovers, and I really believed this was a widespread fondness.
If you like carrots. And if you like pickles (i.e. pickled beets, pickled hot peppers, pickled green beans). Why not pickled carrots?
Adarsh, in particular, was not too enthusiastic about the idea. Mostly, I think, because I slapped his hand away from the gorgeous organic carrots I bought (well, technically he bought…) at the farmer’s market (just for the purpose of pickling!), that he was just dying to crunch into.
He was further unimpressed with me and my hand-slapping when those gorgeous carrots went soft and turned into muffins instead – which he huffily called “carrot cemeteries” and then refused to eat…
This post does not include a recipe, but instead a suggestion! If you, like me, start to hyperventilate at the sight of juicy, succulent, bright local berries, then you may, like me, get a bit overzealous in your purchases.
I had such a moment of dizzy overexcitement at the market this Sunday, which resulted in me coming home with enough BC raspberries and strawberries to give a lesser woman a stomach ache to be nursed in the fetal position. But to my dismay, and despite my very best efforts, I couldn’t eat them fast enough! (Must be something to do with my technique; too much breathing between swallows?)
This morning I woke up to admire my berry bounty when I discovered brown spots disgracing my beautiful strawberries. Noooo!
Once I recovered from the initial panic, I took several deep breaths, and asked myself: Jenn, what do you do do when life gives you blemished berries?
You make jam!