We understand now why heirloom tomatoes became heirloom. While the more modern cultivars stay in their cages like proper plants, the heirlooms sprawl onto the sidewalk and into the herbs, making themselves completely comfortable like a messy in-law come to stay.

It's not like we don't like the idea of the old vines (and we're quite fond of the offspring), but here in the city where garden space comes at a premium, the heirlooms, well, there's nothing to be said except, they're piggish about real estate.

Behold the above monster. We've had our sights on it for some time. (It's a Cherokee Purple, incidently.) I'm thinking it deserves a good stuffing.

A few weeks ago, I yanked all but one of my brussels sprouts from the garden because of aphids--tiny, translucent succubi that destroy leaves and sap plants of their nutrients. Aphids favor cruciferous vegetables, and worried about the health of the nearby broccoli I wiped out this favorite of all crops except for one plant.

Located on the far western side of the garden, this babied sprout continues to struggle. Every two or three days I blast its leaves with water happily sending large colonies of bugs to a sodden grave. I shudder to think of the karmic debt, but this is about potential, about a dream of an autumnal meal of carmelized, roasted sprouts served alongside root vegetables and savory chicken.

Cheryl, who has a deep appreciation for the natural world beyond the culinary, asked if we had ants. We do, legions of them.

"Sweep them away," she said.

My eyes widened. And incur more karmic wrath?

Aphids, it turns out, have made an unholy alliance with ants, who lull and protect and carry them to favored food sources in exchange for their sweet excretions. Ants will even "milk" the bugs, stroking them with their antennae, until the aphids release these sugary juices.

Nature's disgusting.

"Sweep them away," she shrugged.

OK ants, make my day.

(I'm going to hell.)

All you people in the fecund, woody corridors of the East and Midwest have no idea of the toe-tapping, teeth-grinding and hand-wringing Mile Highers suffer waiting for their gardens to produce. All that moist air and black earth, those glistening hot nights; why you've been pulling peas out of your planters since March, haven't you?

Go look at Norma's post. I'll wait. See those tubs of blueberries? Tubs. Of. Blueberries. My blueberry bush looks like it's been to Mt. Sinai and back and they're flagrantly tossing these lapis gems on cereal. You know where we get blueberries in Colorado? Costco. And they taste like gunshot.

Know what's coming up here? Broccoli. That bright green cruciferous favorite of George H.W. Bush, flowering cabbages, basketfuls of bitter, tough florets left too long on the stalk. And it's time for dinner.

Mark Bittman came to the rescue (not in the flesh, though that would have been nice had he offered to cook). His aid came in the form of How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, which I'm quite liking for its informal toss-this-or-that-in approach. Turn to the aparagus gratin recipe. A riffer, Bittman offers recommendations for other gratins, including a variation for broccoli with pesto, breadcrumbs and parmesan cheese.

I did this on stovetop so as not to heat the house by firing the oven.

Broccoli Gratin by way of Bittman

Sautee broccoli in garlic and olive oil until tender.

Add 1/2 to 3/4 cup pesto  (I did a simple pesto from walnuts, basil, olive oil and salt)

Top with 1/2 cup prepared breadcrumbs (Bittman says, "homemade," whatever)

and 1 cup grated parmesan cheese.

Cover until cheese melts and broccoli is heated through.

You'll like it. Tastes a lot better than it sounds.

Grazie mille, Mark.

Imagine that a beautifully styled photograph of roasted beet salad occupies this spot. The cordovan-colored roots are glistening with vinaigrette and sitting atop a bed of bright, perky baby greens. Dollops of creamy white goat cheese and a handful of woody pecans punctuate the image. Everything about this shot says "languid, lazy summer" meal.

So here's reality.

I spent 30 minutes peeling and chopping the beets afterwhich I boiled them in the microwave. This resulted in a red sea of a mess when a tsunami of pink water flooded turntable. Cleaning of the microwave ensued. Eventually I drained the beets, threw them in a roasting basket and carried them out to the grill, trailing rose-colored juice through the back of the house. Then there was the chopping and roasting and cooling of pecans. The whisking and amending of the vinaigrette (a tablespoon of chopped shallot and a bit of dijon added necessary depth and tang.) The retrieving and cooling of the beets (thank goodness for big freezers). The tossing of the salad. The serving to self and husband.

It was delicious. But it was anything but languid and beautiful.

The recipe follows:

3 large beets, peeled and cubed

3 Tbs olive oil

1 Tbs minced shallot

1 tsp dijon mustard

1/4 cup rice vinegar

2 Tbs sherry vinegar

salt and fresh-ground black pepper to taste

4 oz baby arugula leaves

1/2 cup chopped, toasted pecans

2 oz goat cheese, crumbled

Instructions

Cover beets with water in a microwaveable dish. Nuke until soft. Drain. Then roast on grill in a grill basket with a splash of olive oil and salt and pepper until slightly browned. Cool. Make vinaigrette from mixing the next six ingredients. Toss everything in a large bowl.

Put cold compress on forehead.

We spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about food here at Nake-id Knits and have recently stumbled on some local products and resources that are quickly becoming regulars.

1. Noosa Yoghurt--This is an Australian-style yoghurt from a Boulder company. The. Best. Yoghurt. We've. Ever. Had. Creamy, with the perfect mix of sweet and sour. Noosa isn't so cheap or low-fat. But, wow. Put it in a bowl and call it dessert.

2. Morning Fresh Dairy Farm--Milk is milk, right? Not so much. This moo juice from Fort Collins tastes like fresh, clean...milk. Even the skim. We're converts.

3. Ranch Foods Direct Beef--Local, hormone-free, anti-biotic free, this pasture-raised, grain-finished meat is a revelation.

4. Tea Dojo--Four words: Coconut Creme White Tea.

Where to buy? The Denver Indoor Farmer's Market, In Season, and other local markets.

Upside Down Apple Gingerbread

This year the apple tree didn't deliver. A mixed blessing; we don't have apples, but we don't have squirrels pelting the cats, either. And that vague smell of vinegar and decay if we aren't vigilant about collecting the fallen.

I typically make my mother-in-law's apple cake for Rosh Hoshanah or thereabouts, so on one of my few excursions out recently, bought a bag of organic Jonathans from this vendor at the Farmer's Market--a very generous bag of damaged bakers for $5 that taste like cider and perfume. I couldn't immediately locate the apple cake recipe (it has since surfaced), but was of a mind to combine the tart taste of apples with a dark gingerbread. And found this.

I doubled the recipe to get two cakes and used about 4 tbs less butter than called for. We loved it. Great with tea, but promises to be even better with whipped cream!

Last night after processing the above mountain of tomatoes with a proportional ratio of raw garlic, I went to yoga.

I shook hands with the yoga teacher, whom I had never met, and spotted the woman next to me through various poses as she did me. It wasn't until about mid-way through the practice as I began to glow from exertion that I realized my hands smelled pungently and distinctively of raw garlic. Like I had been ingesting the stuff whole for weeks.

As the teacher twisted me into a broken facsimile of full pigeon, I kept thinking, he's going to forever think of me as Stinking Rose.

I spent a good part of July cussing out the tomatoes, convinced I was going to have to pay people to take my jars of green tomato pickle relish (like I know from green tomato pickle relish).

Happily, our reticent fruit decided to ripen up and today we are burdened with so many plump, red tomatoes that it's a tad overwhelming.

"It's too bad it all comes at once," Mitch said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Too bad Mother Nature doesn't check our calendars."

Monday we had gazpacho (sans the weird egg business described in this recipe). Yesterday, apple/rhubarb cobbler from produce Mitch scored in Westcliffe. Today, Pappa al Pomodoro Soup (has the added benefit of using up some of our fresh basil and sage). Tomorrow, more spaghetti sauce and another rhubarb thing (open to any and all suggestions). Friday, maybe a nice caprese salad?

We're scrambling to keep up with our slow food!

They are a perverse lot, tomatoes. One minute you're shouting at them to ripen up, the next you're begging people to take them before they decompose into pools of red gore.

This week faced with a basket of soggy beauties, I decided to make spaghetti sauce. But being mid-week and and lacking the fortitude to blanche, peel and seed tomotoes, here's what I did:

Recipe--Peels-and-all Spaghetti Sauce

1 dozen fresh tomatoes, cored and halved

5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 onion, chopped

1/4 cup olive oil

Red pepper flakes, a healthy pinch

1/2 cup chopped, fresh basil

3-4 Tbs of tomato paste

Salt to taste

Directions: Sautee garlic and onion in olive oil until translucent. Add red pepper flakes. Turn heat down to low and add tomatoes. Stew for about an hour, leaving the pot uncovered to allow sauce to reduce. Stir in basil and tomato paste. Grind to bloody pulp with an immersion blender.

Bon appetit!

Given that Mitch and I still entertain like graduate students, guests sitting on the floor cross-legged, plates perched on laps, Saturday's meal was a revelation:

We were invited to a wine dinner billed as Southern Colorado and Southern France. To get to the house, we drove nine miles on rutted dirt roads, through rabbit brush gilded with new flowers, spiney sage and bunch grasses trending amber. Cows roam freely in this part of the county--or as freely as landowners allow--so every mile or so, I had to hop out of the truck, my silver sandals raising billows of dust, and swing open heavy pipe gates while Mitch drove through.

We could see the house from miles away, sitting atop a bald ridge. We arrived late and apologizing with a bag of heirloom tomatoes for the hostess and drank in the valley views from the tall, wide windows.

The table was set, placecards slotted into winecorks, with forks for each course, two wine glasses each, for red and white, gleaming table linens. A menu lay at every place, describing each course and the wine pairing.

Permit me to cut to the chase:

Hors D'oeuvres: Tapenade, Tomato Tarte Tain and Radishes with Anchovy Butter

L'Entree: Olate Corn Soup with Garlic Butter

Poisson Cours: Apalachiola Shrimp Provencal

Le Plat Principal: Grilled Veal Chops (Colorado pasture raised) and Eggplant Tomato Gratin

Salade: Local greens in vinaigrette

Le Fromage: Haystack Boulder Goat, Bucheron, Camembert and Roquefort

Le Dessert: Ambrosia Honey Mouse, Pain d'amande, Palisade Peaches and Pears

Each dish was carefully paired with an appropriate Colorado or French wine. The 2001 Dom. Les Aphillantes, Cotes du Rhone-Cuvee du Cros was smashing.

Trust me, we can't stop talking about this meal.