Yesterday I painted my toenails. That’s a really big deal, since I hardly ever sit still, because The Baby Nickel is unable to sit still, long enough to get them painted. It’s a butch job, but that’s okay—they’re red.

I treated my face to an Aztec Mud Mask. A chunk of it fell off my chin and landed in the frosting that I was making. Fortunately, the beaters were not whirring, so I just quickly lifted it out. Shh. Don’t tell. (Calm down! It was just mud!)

My Girlfriend Sheri altered a gown for me (my ribs expanded, okay?). The gown is dark blue and has long, gauzy thingies that flow down behind my back. It reminds me of a gown that Hamlet’s mother might have worn. I call it my Shakespeare dress.

I got the gown dry-cleaned (it still had splotches of food on the front of it—food from a meal that took place 11 years and 11 months ago) for 14 dollars and 83 cents.

Mr. Handsome picked up a tux. He still needs to find black socks.

I borrowed shoes from my Girlfriend Annmarie. Gold sandals with rhinestones all along the top strap.

A couple days later I went back to my Girlfriend Annmarie’s house and ransacked her jewelry selection. (I no longer call her my girlfriend—I now refer to her as my fashion consultant—do you have one of those?) I came away with a gorgeous old-fashioned necklace (I want to steal it, but I will not), a gold bracelet, and a pair of screw-on earrings (why do they remind me of a torture device?). I gave her a loaf of fresh bread which her little boy promptly kissed and sucked on (my kid’s not the only one!!!).

At this very moment my parents are enroute to our house. They will be taking care of the children for us.

There will be a limousine parked out in front of the church.

By now, you’re probably bouncing around in your chair wondering whatever could be the reason for such extensive preparations?

Church. That’s all. We’re just going to church this morning, like we do (most) every Sunday.

Can you guess what the sermon is on? Here’s a hint: It’s a parable.

Bye, now. I gotta go shave my legs, wash and blow-dry my hair, put on make-up, and slip into my finery.

It is not a pleasant place to be.

Peaches have such a great reputation, too: “Peaches ‘n Cream”, “Life is just peachy”, “Life is just a bowl of peaches” (oh wait, that’s cherries).

I do like peaches, I really do. I have memories of squatting by the kiddie pool at our Maytown house, biting into the fuzzy fruit, juice dripping down my chin, elbows, knees (we were by the kiddie pool for a reason). Peach jam, peach tart with mounds of whipped cream, canned peaches spooned over granola, homemade vanilla ice cream with frozen, mashed, sugared peaches—it’s all very good. But that’s just the eating part. Putting them up is a different story.

Peaches have a nasty tradition of confounding me. First of all, it can be tricky to get the peaches to surrender up their pits. The peaches have to be perfectly ripened and not at all mushy. (If they are still green, I have to stab the peach with my knife, and, using all the strength that I can muster up in my fingers and wrists, attempt to pry the rock-hard, woody, rough pit out of the peach. I often end up bruising my knuckles on the pit or on the sides of the kitchen sink because my hands spastically fly apart when the pit finally does fall free. Then I come very close to screaming curses. If the peaches are at all mushy, then I just have a bunch of mush, which, while not very appealing, has the ability to be jammed.)

Second, peaches have the ability to rot quickly. This is something I still have not learned, though you’d think I’d have learned my lesson after the Peach Disaster of 2001 (or was is 2002?). That year, Mr. Handsome and I put up a pile of peaches, to the tune of about 50 quarts. This was also the year that my generous mother-in-law gave us the outdoor cookstove from Lehman’s Hardware. The stove had two, very powerful burners and we zipped along cheerily, turning out dozens of jars filled with golden peach slices. But, over the course of the next several days, our jars of peaches began to unseal. Pop. Pop. Pop. We were stunned and dismayed. We put the jars in the fridge, planning to re-can them, but it didn’t happen because when we opened the lids and took a sniff, we realized the peaches were already rotting. We dumped them down the garbage disposal, instead—glub, glub, glub—about 40 quarts of peaches slithering down the drain.

Talk about depressing.

(The reason for the unsealing was that the heavy-duty cookstove heated up the canner water extremely quickly, but the jarred peaches didn’t heat up as fast, so the fruit never reached the proper temperature. We still use the cookstove, but we can over medium heat, and then leave the fruit in the canner for a few extra minutes, just to be sure.)

What happened this morning isn’t nearly as bad, but it still made me fume. Last night I washed, peeled, and sliced up a big bowl of beautiful peaches (no bruised knuckles that time) and put the slices on the dehydrator trays. I ran the dehydrator (another gift from my generous mother-in-law) for several hours, but I turned it off before I went to bed because the dehydrator is quite powerful (I think there may be a connection between my mother-in-law and powerful presents) and I didn’t want the peaches to be cornflakes come morning. However, when I came down this morning and turned the dehydrator back on, I got a nauseating wiff of rotten peaches. So the chickens got the peaches, instead. In retrospect, cornflake peaches would’ve been just fine.

I have more peaches to do up, and I plan on buying some more bushels over the next several weeks, so I suppose the good news is that I will have lots of chances to work out the kinks and get really good at preserving peaches sans rotting. I hope I remember everything I learn by next August when it comes time to sink into the sink with the peach pits yet again (that didn’t really make sense, but I like how it sounded).

Life will be peachy… once all the peaches are canned.

…and went to heaven, and do I ever have a surprise for you: heaven is made up of Tomato Bread Pudding. And here all along you had thought it was made up of gold—ha! Three simple things, tomatoes, bread, and pudding, but when done the right way (with a few more ingredients)—um-um-um, glorious!

I was floating around, high on Roasted Tomato Perfume, but now I have parked my rear firmly on my wooden chair and my fingers are furiously clacking away, rushing to tell the tale.

I read this recipe in Gourmet magazine, the same one that had the fried lemons and parsley dish. Wait! Do not go away! This recipe redeems that other recipe, and then some.

This dish takes a lot of oven time, so make it in the cool of the morning. It reheats well (at least I imagine it would, but I can’t honestly say I know that for sure since I haven’t tried reheating it yet), so bake it up in the morning, and then heat it up for dinner. I ate this for lunch today, and I plan to eat it for supper tonight, breakfast tomorrow, lunch tomorrow… you get the general idea.

Tomato Bread Pudding
Adapted from Gourmet magazine, the July 2008 issue

3 pounds Roma tomatoes, the little top cut off and then the tomatoes halved lengthwise
1 ½ teaspoons herbes de Provence (I made my own mixture a while back—I don’t know the proportions right off the bat, but it consists of marjoram, sage, basil, thyme, fennel, and rosemary)
some good olive oil, about a half cup
1 head of garlic
1 loaf of crusty, white bread (about one pound)
2 cups milk
1 cup cream
8 eggs
2 cups grated Fontina cheese (about 9 ounces)
½ cup Parmesan cheese, grated
salt and pepper

Put the halved tomatoes in a large bowl, drizzle with two tablespoons of olive oil, add the herbes de Provence, 3/4 teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper, and toss well. Arrange the tomatoes, cut side up, on a large sheet pan, one with sides.

Take the head of garlic and cut off the top of it, about a quarter inch down, so that you can see the cloves. Discard the top.

Place the scalped head of garlic on a piece of foil, drizzle the garlic with about 1 teaspoon of olive oil, wrap the foil up tight around the garlic, and place the metallic ball on the sheet with the tomatoes.

Bake the tomatoes and garlic in a 375 degree oven for 50-60 minutes. The tomatoes will be brown and very slightly blackened, but still have a good deal of juice. The garlic will be soft. The house will smell divine. Remove the pan from the oven and let sit for a little while.

Take the loaf of bread and cut it into 1-inch cubes.

Put the bread cubes in a large bowl and toss with 1/3 cup olive oil. Spread the cubes on another large cookie sheet and bake at 375 degrees for 10-20 minutes, stirring once or twice, until toasty brown.

When the garlic is cool enough to touch, squeeze the garlic out of it’s paper wrapper.

The recipe said to push it through a sieve, but that didn’t go so hotsy-totsy for me, and besides, I don’t see any real point to it. So just mush up the garlic real well with your fingertips, checking to see if there are any hard lumps or fibers; if so, pick them out.

In another bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, milk, garlic paste, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 ½ teaspoons black pepper. Add the cheeses.

Now, grease a 9×13 glass pan and put the toasted bread cubes in it. Pour the cream mixture over top of the bread. Place the roasted tomatoes on the top, pressing them down in a little. Bake the pudding at 350 degrees for 45-60 minutes, until it’s firm and nicely browned. Allow to cool for a little bit before eating. Or not.

Alright. I’m done now. I won’t delay you any longer. Go out to the kitchen and cook up a pan of heaven on earth. Feel free to belt out some hymns while you chop and roast and whisk your way to a higher, better place.

Another thought: What would this be like if I added some browned sausage to the pudding mixture? What about a couple of caramelized onions? Oo-oo-ooh! I’m being transported! Someone grab my feet, quick!