Maters and Mercy

So one of the things I love about friends who farm is that I get to share in their bounty. Every summer, Kristin and Marc Daly plunder their Albemarle, NC gardens for me. This year, they're canning yellow and red tomatoes, tomato sauce, salsa, pickles, and beans.

When I broke my foot a couple of weeks ago, Kristin baked me a tomato pie. I promised you the recipe and we deliver, so here you go.

Fresh Tomato Basil Pie

1/2 (15-oz.) pkg refrigerated pie crust

1 1/2 cups of shredded mozzarella cheese

6-8 Roma tomatoes or 6 medium tomatoes

1 c. loosely packed fresh Basil leaves

4 cloves of garlic

1/2 c. mayonnaise

1/4 c. Parmesa cheese, grated

1/8 tsp ground white pepper

Unfold pie crust and place in pie plate. Flute edges with fork tine. Pre-bake the pie crust for 10 minutes at 375 degrees. Strew 1/2 cup Mozzerella cheese over hot crust. Peel and cut tomatoes into wedges and drain in colander using paper towel. Arrange tomatoes on top of melted cheese. In food processor, combine fresh basil and garlic and blend until coarsely chopped and then sprinkle mixture over tomatoes. In a bowl combine remaining cheese, mayo, Parmesan cheese and pepper. Then spread over the basil mixture. Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes. Serve warm.

Now that I've fulfilled my recipe commitment, I think I'll head out of town. To the place I go when I want to think or reboot. It's where I go for quiet and mercy, but this visit is different. For the 8th July, I'll meet 15-20 friends and just plain hang out until Sunday.

A peek at one of my favorite places on the planet.

I stop and see my grandmother on the way. She'll be thrilled to see that my hair is too long and my knee length jeans skirt is too short. This and the fact that I'm not wearing a jacket assure her I'm still in need of her advice.

After leaving Grandma's, I follow Hunting Creek about 4 miles north and there's nothing but four days of blue skies, hills, gurgling brooks and love. I get to laugh, eat good food, write and paint and well, do whatever I feel like doing. All right, so the laughing is not unusual. But the painting is rare.

That gurgling brook thing reminds me of Dad. He likes to say that some people who write actually try to make money at it, and some writers are the "babbling brook" kind. He means instead of writing Eat Pray Love, I take pictures of tomatoes and tell you about babbling brooks on the internet.