Eastside Road, Healdsburg, September 23, 2009—
THAT'S WHAT I ALWAYS call it, "icebox." You can tell a man's age by his terminology: I still say "television set," never simply "television"; but I say "radio," not "radio set". I know it's a refrigerator, but when I was a kid it was always called the icebox, and that's what I still call it.In any case, home from upcountry, dinner still from our party last Sunday. Maybe this is the last of the cold chicken. With it, a mess of kale and chard from the garden; also, stewed tomatoes — another familiar from my childhood, but without the torn-up balloon-bread Mom always included. I didn't miss that, not a bit.
Cheap Nero d'Avola
2 comments:
Torn-up balloon-bread? You mean stirred into the tomatoes, or as a garnish? I can't quite imagine what that texture was...or maybe I just don't want to!
Actually it was a kind of tomato Charlotte, now that I think about it. Mom lined a Pyrex baking bowl — round, deep — with sliced bread, cutting the slices to fit, and dumped the (usually canned) tomatoes in, and baked the whole thing. It wasn't as bad as it sounds, but I don't want any tonight, thanks. Maybe if you drizzle olive oil on the bread first...
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