Mid-life crisis: Instagram, behold my pouting tomatoes
I actually thought of joining social media last week. Instagram probably. What was it that moved me to do so? A pouting selfie that looked so good I wanted to share it with the world? A bloated 'food baby' stomach that I wanted to put up to show that you should never assume a man is pregnant because he has been eating too much white bread? A picture of me and my VBFs enjoying a new bar/restaurant/product? No.
Actually it was my tomatoes. I was so proud of them. I couldn't actually believe they turned red in the end, like actual tomatoes. And you could eat them, just like real tomatoes you'd buy in a shop. I held a bunch of them in my hands and got my wife to take a picture. It was biblical looking. In the absence of anyone else to share it with who would give a damn I sent it to my niece, who will always pretend to appreciate such things.
They started reddening up hard and fast over the bank holiday weekend, and because we were having a mini-break at home, we had the time and energy to make several tomato-based dishes. Sunday brunch was scrambled eggs mess with Gubbeen chorizo and onions with a side of fried tomatoes all on rye sourdough toast. "How much would you pay for this in a hipster brunch spot?" I asked out loud, to which the correct answer is, "You wouldn't get it in a hipster brunch spot." We doubled down on Monday. Breakfast was a Mexican eggs concoction with avocado and paprika and feta and crushed tortilla chips, and of course tomatoes. And then, on Sunday evening, I chopped up a load of them, added oil, salt, sugar and basil, let them macerate for a while, then cooked them while the spaghetti was on, adding a slight bit of chilli heat and a bit of butter. Even the kids, who give out about spiciness but then come back for more, were forced to agree that this simple, humble dish was as good as anything you'd get in Italy.