The joys of the harvest

I do have to put down the coffee to get into the garden; Michael had to build a literal cage around it to keep out the squirrels and rabbits (and any other creature looking to nibble on the tomatoes). I unlatch one section and crouch inside. There’s no way my basket is going to fit between the tight rows. I gather the hem of my T-shirt to use as an apron and fill it to the brim with the warm and heavy fragrant gems we have grown.

I’m making salsa today. I’m also going to pick the herbs for my flavoured salt. Rosemary, thyme and oregano are all going into the basket, but sage is definitely the star of the mix. 

Sage. There’s something so incredibly wonderful about sage to me. Its leaves are velvety and fuzzy to the touch, lightly textured and a beautiful silver-green just wanting to be touched. And its scent, so earthy and savoury, resinous and musky but also herbaceous. I always do that thing – I have for years – where I stick my face in its abundance and just breathe it in. Pure pleasure. 

I don’t have a dehydrator, so I need to let the herbed salt air dry for several days – and boy, does that make the house fragrant!

These are simple joys. They are my joys. They keep me happy and busy and tired and joyful and so satisfied. 

This is the part of preserving that I love most. The garden gives me the raw ingredients, but the real fun begins when I start deciding what they will become.

Today’s tomatoes will become salsa. The herbs will become my herbed salt. And over the next few days, my kitchen will slowly fill with the smells of the harvest as each ingredient is transformed, one batch at a time.

Nothing happens particularly quickly in my stillroom. There is chopping, simmering, tasting, adjusting, waiting. And then, eventually, there are jars.

That’s the magic of preserving for me: taking something abundant and fleeting and finding a way to make it last.