In the meantime though, we've got plenty of other Things keeping our minds occupied, our hands busy and our hearts full.
With late summer comes the season of plentiful tomatoes. And with an abundance of tomatoes comes the need to preserve their summer richness for the months ahead.
Remember Looking For Alibrandi? I first read it when I was in about year 8 or 9 I think, and I remember being struck by the whole italian-ness about it. The nonnas and the zias and tomato bottling day...I yearned for such traditions in my life.
Sure, my childhood had its rituals and celebrations. There was Easter spotlighting with my maternal grandparents, aunts and uncles. There was summer mulberry picking (which happened in the nude for the kids, if I remember correctly). And there were the more regular, less grand rituals of Saturday afternoon tennis that was followed by Saturday night BBQs or pub meals or card games where everyone would gather to re-live the highs and the lows of the day's tennis. The hot-headed smashes that hit the back fence, the unexpected sideliners, the floating lob you had to climb the back fence to return...
These were all cherished elements of the culture we had generated over the last few decades as a white (there, I said it) family living in rural Victoria, but when compared with the traditions steeped so deeply and firmly within the Italian Culture as portrayed in Looking for Alibrandi, it just all seemed so...pale in comparison. I so desperately wanted to get in on this whole tomato bottling thing so that I could feel like I was just a little bit Italian, and the feeling has never left me. So when Jess declared months ago that she was planning a bottling day at the end of January I was IN. I didn't pencil the date in my calendar. I didn't write it in permanent marker. I was so keen that I actually etched the date in the stone.
Jess was pretty clear about how things would go. The day would start at 8am (ambitious) and run through until dinner time. The toddlers would all play together harmoniously (very ambitious) from go to woe, and have a nap after lunch (blindly optimistic). We would wash, dice, mill, simmer, bottle and seal the tomatoes. The assigned leader was Jeremy (he's done lots of bottling in the past, it's his and Jess' house, he bought an industrial-scale mincer... excellent leadership qualities right there), and the very fact that there was a leader assigned meant that this was BIG. There will be no messing about here people; the bottling will be taken seriously.
As the day approached, I got increasingly excited. I was about to fulfil a dream I had held since High School. I was ready.
Here is what Passata Day 2017 looked like:
6.30am: Wake up. Passata Day starts at 8am SHARP. Plenty of time to get ready.
6.31: Plans to shower before The Toddler wakes are foiled by The Toddler waking. Make the mistake of saying, 'No, mum is having a shower on her own.' Take shower with The Toddler standing at the shower door pretend-crying and repeating '(Sh)Ower! Ower! Ower!' ad nauseum. Consider giving in and letting The Toddler into the shower. Wonder if this is one of those times when The Toddler is testing my resolve. Decide that every time is The Toddler testing my resolve. Refuse to back down. Finish showering with The Toddler continuing to fake-cry and shout at me.
6.45: Make toast and coffee.
7.00: Iron dress. Get dressed. Get The Toddler dressed. Ensure attire is appropriate for hot weather/tomato stains/largely unsupervised toddler-play.
7.15: Pour more coffee. Look on instagram. Check the weather. Wonder why it takes so long to get one adult and one toddler ready for the day.
7.30: Pack the car. Fowler's Vacola. Jars. Watermelon. Hat. Sunscreen. Nappies.
7.35: Brush own teeth. Attempt to brush The Toddler's teeth. The Toddler presents compelling case (read: shouting, fake-crying, general thrashing about) as to why brushing teeth is unnecessary.
7.36: Contemplate how fine the line is between 'firm restraint' and 'forceful man-handling'.
7.37:
7.45: Walk out the door and lock it. Instruct The Toddler to feed the chook.
7.46: Unlock door and go back inside to get change of clothes for The Toddler and contributions for lunch and dinner.
7.47: Walk out the door and lock it.
7.48: Help The Toddler toss chook food over chook's fence.
7.51: Unlock door and go back inside. Get wallet, sunglasses, phone. Opt for bringing an actual handbag.
7.53: Walk out the door and lock it.
7.54: Instruct The Toddler to get in the car.
7.55: Present compelling case to The Toddler about why getting in the car is necessary.
7.56: Unlock door and go back inside. Check that iron is turned off. It is.
7.57: Walk out the door and lock it.
7.58: The Toddler is sitting quietly in the car seat! Have a small party about this gigantic win.
7.59: Reverse out the driveway. Resist urge to go and buy coffee in the name of arriving (pretty much) on time.
8.03: Arrive at Passata Day destination. Have another small party about another gigantic win. Only 3 minutes behind time, we got stuck straight in.
Jeremy had been to the market to pick up the tomatoes so we brought them in from the car. This alone was a workout; there was twice my bodyweight in ripe, red fruit. And we were intending to bottle ALL of it. The sheer scale of the undertaking started to sink in. It continued to sink in as we washed them and diced them and were still working our way through them at 11am. Just when I thought maybe there were actually infinity tomatoes, we looked around for another bucket-full to dice, but they were all done. Done! I surveyed my blistered thumb and undertook the one of the eleventy-hundred cleans ups we would do throughout the day.
While we were slicing and dicing there was a person on the milling machine pushing the tomatoes through to give a (surprisingly) pink, frothy tomato liquid that went into huge pots. After this, the pots went onto hotplates to simmer for as long as possible to reduce the tomatoes to a thick, rich red sauce.
By this time the sun was high and hot. Icy poles (a Jess Special: coconut water and fruit) for the toddlers. A beer for those adults who were inclined. And an interlude to prepare pizza for lunch.
Side Note: I'm the kind of person who looks ahead and sees that I have a big day coming up, so I rest in anticipation. Jess is the kind of person, on the other hand, who sees a big day coming up and thinks it's probably best to make pizza bases and pasta from scratch so there will be delightful food to eat. Amazing, if you ask me.
After lunch we got to sterilising our jars. We were not taking any risks so they went through the dishwasher, into the oven for half-a and a pot of boiling water for the lids.
It was at this point that energy waned a little. It was mid-afternoon, it had become clear that the toddlers were not going to nap, the jars that needed cleaning stretched to approximately eternity and it was really, really hot. And it was at this point I looked around and took the time to absorb my surroundings. A house and yard full of interesting, kind, funny people. Kids playing. Food being made and enjoyed. Traditions being solidified. Yep. My Looking For Alibrandi dream really was coming true.
Finally it was time to ladle the passata into the jars. After some citric acid and salt was measured into each jar, the tomatoes went in, followed by a few fresh basil leaves. Then on went the lids, and straight into the pots to be simmered in water for a while.
And then dinner. Fresh tomato passata went into the ragout to put atop Jess' fresh pasta. Another beer, a little wine and one final, satisfying clean up.
The total yield was about 80 litres of passata. By my precise calculations, that will get exactly heaps of people through the next year until we do it all again. Pasta sauces, pizza sauces, soups, dals, stews. Gazpacho, bloody marys, casserols. Bring it.
Like all of the Things Worth Doing, bottling tomatoes takes time. Energy. Dedication. Preparation. It's not all rainbows and unicorns. You get blisters from cutting the tomatoes. You get a bit bored with the repetitive nature of things. You stare down a mountain of tomatoes and jars and saucepans and you work your way through, bit by bit. But this is exactly where the magic happens. Shared tasks of this nature offer the time to really be with people. To talk. To not talk. To philosophise. To relax. To be productive.
