It's a funny thing when the power goes out. I don't mind it, as long as it's not freezing cold and as long as I don't have anything in the oven. It kind of cool how quiet the world outside becomes. Well, quiet when my children aren't shrieking or blowing whistles and flashing their flashlights into everyone's windows or racing around the front yard yelling "WOW IT'S SO DARK LOOK AT ALL THE STARS I LOVE HOW DARK IT IS I WONDER IF GEORGE HAS A FLASHLIGHT THIS IS SO EXCITING MUM COME OUT COME OUT!" They adore it when the power goes out, but that's only because it has yet to cause them any inconvenience. This time it was due to a massive wind storm that whipped through the area. It blew over our neighbour's deck umbrellas, knocked down some tree branches, and carried a lot of newspapers to various front yards. Today our back yard is littered with debris: clumps of Garry oak branches, rowan leaves, and lots of plastic nursery pots from my "collection" (sounds better when I call it that). And the front yard had so many pine needles that the kids swept up a garbage can's worth this morning. I even had to race out in the middle of the storm to tie a guy line to my
When the power went out, Richard took the kids down the hill to see what might be happening. Max had gone down earlier and reported that a large Hydro truck and several police cars were camped out where our street met the larger road, doing Something Critical to the wires. Richard got down there to find that the chef at the nearby restaurant was also there, shouting in a typically chef-like fashion (I used to be one, so I can say this) about his 200 customers, now sitting in total darkness without their steaks and seafoods. For some reason, I love the idea that we are on the same power grid line as a large restaurant with a feisty chef.
The kids went out with their multitude of flashlights. FDPG had her whistle-and-compass combination, in case she needed to a) find her compass points in the dark, and b) whistle loudly
I started this post with a view to showing you my ingenious method of ripening cherry tomatoes. With all the rain we've had lately my last tomatoes are splitting, so I hauled in several buckets' worth mid-week. But a week or so ago I was picking some cherry tomatoes and accidentally pulled too hard and one heavy branch cracked off. It was a nice branch, too; lots of tomatoes on it. So I hung it up in the kitchen, and now look at it:
They even taste good. And now I have, to borrow Dominic's phrase, gazillions of tomatoes in varying stages of ripeness, loafing around the dining room, sitting on tables, on sideboards, on top of the Pig From Guinea's cage, and all over the washer and dryer. I have bowls of ripe and semi-ripe Yellow Pears, Sungolds, and Sweet 100s, big dishes of ripe and semi-ripe Big Bites, Bonne's Best, Romas, and Lemon Boys, and ice cream buckets of green Tigerellas and Beefsteaks (I forget exactly what they are but they are big). It's like an episode of Star Trek, the one with the Tribbles. Only I have tomatoes. And believe me, they are no trouble at all.