The Old Blog in the Desert

Every summer, right about the time the air smells like hot dust and basil, I find myself knee-deep in tomatoes. It starts innocently enough with a few plants—Roma, Amish Paste, and the ever-bragging Goliath—but by July, they’re cranking out fruit faster than I can mutter “caprese salad” under my breath.

Now, I’ve done the old-school tomato process before—blanching, peeling, seeding, sweating like a sinner in church. It’s noble work, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also a one-way ticket to backache and dishpan hands. This year, I smartened up. I decided to roast them.

That’s right—cut ’em in half, toss with olive oil, a whisper of salt, and a clove or three of garlic (because if vampires hate garlic, they surely loathe tomato sauce too). Into the oven they went, and I got to sit back with a cup of cowboy coolaid and pretend I was a Tuscan nonna.

Roasting, it turns out, is like cheating without the guilt. The skins slip right off, the flavors deepen like they’ve spent time at a poetry retreat, and what’s left is this thick, velvety, ruby-red sauce that could make a grown man weep. I ran it through the mill and poured it into jars like I was bottling sunshine.

There’s a kind of peace that comes from seeing your pantry slowly fill up with those glinting jars, stacked like gold bars for the soul. I don’t do it for survival or pride—though I admit it makes me puff my chest a little when someone says, “You made this?”—I do it because it feels like putting something good back into the world. Like a savings account, but tastier.

Now, there was just a bit of sauce left over—maybe half a cup. Too little to can, too precious to waste. So, I went looking for a worthy vessel, and lo and behold, a zucchini the size of a Louisville Slugger was lounging in the garden as if it had been waiting for this moment its whole life.

I hollowed it out, mixed up a bit of rice, breadcrumbs, the last of the parmesan, and tucked it all in like it was a bed. Poured that sauce over the top and baked it until the top was golden and the squash surrendered like a poet in love. When I pulled it from the oven, I swear the aroma nearly converted me to Catholicism. It smelled like Sunday at Grandma’s, even though my grandma’s cooking could have stripped paint off a Buick.

And when I sat down to eat, just me and the quiet hum of a happy kitchen, I took one bite and laughed out loud. Not because it was funny, but because it was good. Good in a way that makes you grateful for dirt, for sun, for seeds, for second chances.

Mangia bene, buon appetito, and all that. But mostly—thank the garden, and remember to save the leftover sauce. It’s the little things that turn a meal into a memory.