Slow Food


“…just remember, in Italy you have to respect the ingredients. It isn’t just a tomato; it is the culmination of a season’s worth of hard work by a farmer who lives just a few miles away, whose family has been growing tomatoes for five hundred years.”

Alexander Feldman
Chef’s page
Gastronomica, Spring 2010

I re-read this quote the other day.  It belongs, eye-level, on my kitchen backsplash.  Even though there isn’t this kind of history in the hothouse-gown pile of pinkish tomatoes in my local grocery store, how grand to treat each and every ingredient as if it has.


First kisses
Perfectly cooked crispy bacon
Being brought coffee in bed
My kitty, purring
The scent of freshly cut grass without the noise of the mower/blower
Twittering finches
Babbling brooks
The warmth of the sun on my back
The air when I drive by the cookie factory
Fresh rain on dusty blacktop
Crescent moons on clear, chilly nights
Spooning in the dawn hours
The sound of my pencil on paper
Nutella, spooned straight from the jar
Crackling fires in Autumn
Being loved – despite all my faults
7 am Saturday morning – when I realize I have hours more to sleep
A new haircut
Holding hands
Spaetzle, fried crisp in butter
Nonsensical conversations in bed
Lindor Milk Chocolate Truffles
Napping to the sound of the washing machine
The very last center bite of buttery cinnamon sugar toast
Watering the backyard, barefoot, on a warm summer evening
Wind chimes in a gentle breeze
Sun-warmed tomatoes, straight from the vine