14 September 2010

I had a better reason today for tears than bugs in my applesauce: an onion.

I woke this morning to a storm coming in off the sea. Torrential rain, thunder rattling my windows, lightening sizzling the gray sky. I spent the first few hours of the raging morning in the cold, low-ceiling basement in Tim and Leslie’s house putting labels on glass bottles for vinegar, on plastic jugs for cider—several hundred of them. I spent the rest of the day helping Leslie make peach chutney, and believe me, it is an all-day affair. The onion I chopped was the stoutest one I ever have. Tears were streaming down my face, my nose was running, and my eyes were stinging so badly that I had to squint to be able to see at all. It was excruciating, and I was laughing like a maniac. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a masochist.

Peach chutney is basically anything you can find in your kitchen—and peaches—tossed into a pot. Peaches, onions, garlic, lemon zest, the lemon itself, apple, honey, freshly grated ginger, celery, mustard seed, coriander, turmeric, chili powder, peppercorn, raisins, a whole host of other spices, and I know there’s more, but I can’t remember. As I was standing over the burner carefully stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon, another storm gathering outside, I couldn’t help but mutter over my strange brew, “Double, double, toil and trouble.”