Since I don't really know what I'm doing - and we've had a few projects on the burners this summer - we've kept our vegetable patch to a minimum this season. This may prove a fortuitous compromise, given summer's tardy arrival and the possibility of an early fall. (Should such a tragedy occur, I'll console myself with new yarn.) Last week, I tossed homegrown zucchini and a long, skinny eggplant into our stir fry and enjoyed a simple satisfaction for our evening meal. I pulled a handful of peppery radishes out of the dirt and served them on top of my homemade crusty bread with butter and salt. We have the potential for spaghetti squash and little tomatoes of all colors, provided September is warm enough.
This evening, I was enjoying the quiet duet of the dishwasher and dryer humming in productive unison, about to head upstairs for a relaxing end to my evening when I remembered the bushel of rhubarb I snapped off before dinner and left on the front steps. Visions of rhubarb bread, muffins and bundt cake were quickly abandoned for a considerably more practical batch of sauce. Now, fancy folks will call it rhubarb compote, but when I was growing up I spooned it over plain yogurt or smeared it across peanut butter toast, and called it sauce. It's a simple concoction of chopped rhubarb, sugar, a little water and maybe some orange peel or sliced strawberries added at the last minute (I used orange oil tonight because I'm lazy), brought to a boil and then simmered until it's not quite as thick as applesauce. I didn't even follow a recipe. There's enough in the pot for tomorrow's breakfast and a few extra quarts for the freezer. When it's cold this winter, and I'm dreaming up plans for strawberries, basil, rainbow chard, and a namesake melon, I'll enjoy a taste of summer and count my blessings. Starting with sauce.