Green Chutney
By Katie
“Helen, please come set the table,” a voice called up the stairs.
Helen Johnson sighed and rolled her eyes. Just a few more minutes was all she needed. The local news was calling for storms over the next few days and the humidity would mean her oil paints would not dry as quickly. All she wanted to do was finish one more painting.
“Helen Rebecca, now!” the voice was tinged with impatience.
“Yeah, Helen Rebecca. Besides your painting looks like poo,” Helen’s little sister Meredith popped in the doorway.
“It’s an abstract painting,” Helen said, exasperated. Absentmindedly, she twisted her blond curls up from her neck as she studied her painting. Something was off and she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“Yeah, well, it still looks like poo. All browns and yellows. Bleh!” Meredith continued on down the hallway and headed down into the stairs into the living room.
“Helen. Rebecca. Johnson. If you are not downstairs by the time I count to 5, I will be taking your painting supplies.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Helen wiped her hands on a rag and with a backwards glance, followed her sister down the stairs. At the bottom, she veered to the right and into the spacious kitchen.
Helen Johnson, a soon to be sophomore at Sleepyside Junior Senior High School, still was thinking about her painting when entering the kitchen. At the end of the previous school year, Helen was asked to submit a portfolio of art as an entrance exam to the advanced art class. This class, usually reserved for seniors, would give Helen chance to really grow in her artistic ability. She had spent the summer working through various mediums and was trying to finish her paintings before the new school year started in about 10 days.
“Hey Squeak. Did you know the quicker you get the table set, the quicker we can eat?” Helen’s older brother, Martin, stood in the center of the kitchen, spinning a basketball on his fingers.
“You know what would have been even quicker? If you had set it while waiting for me to come downstairs,” Helen retorted over her shoulder as she grabbed the stack of plates and cutlery waiting for her at the edge of the counter.
“Squaw’s work. I prefer the man’s work of eating. Did you know Mom made her famous fried chicken? You should really learn to make it. Might help get you a man,” Martin picked up a stray carrot off a platter that was warming on the back of the stove.
“Young man, if you are strong enough to pick up that carrot, I bet you can carry the whole platter to the table,” Mrs. Johnson came back into the kitchen and tossed her apron on the counter. “Now, let’s go.”
“How was everyone’s day?” Mr. Johnson asked after the family had gathered around the table and filled their plates.
“Great! Mom and I went to school to school and I got my schedule and my locker assignment.,” said Meredith. As her sister rambled about school, Helen’s thoughts turned towards her portfolio, as she wondered again about the best presentation order for her artwork. Startled, Helen looked up when she realized Martin was talking to her.
“So, I saw some of those tomatoes are starting to turn, Helen. Ready for some tomato preserves? Sounds like fun in a hot kitchen!”
“Martin’s right,” said Mrs. Johnson as she passed a bowl of carrots around the table. “If we get those storms this weekend, then any ripe tomatoes will be ruined. You will need to get those tomatoes canned.”
“I know. I’ll work on them sometime tomorrow. Mer can help me by picking the ripe ones while I boil the jars,” Helen finished up the food on her plate. “Can I be excused? I really want to get as much done as possible on my painting today. This humidity is really slowing down the drying time.”
“No. We are going to eat dinner as a family and enjoy our time together,” Mr. Johnson looked at his wife. “May I have a second piece of your delicious chicken?”
“Of course. But unfortunately, I need to leave. I have a meeting of the Library Board at 7pm and I need to pick up Alicia on my way,” Mrs. Johnson handed her husband the platter as she passed him.
“Great. If Mom is done, then I am heading upstairs. Give Aunt Alicia a kiss for me and tell her she needs to stop by. I want to show her my new paintings,” Helen quickly deposited her dishes into the sink and ran upstairs before anyone could object.
As Helen entered her bedroom, she studied the painting in the evening light. “Hmm, maybe Meredith is right. Maybe it does need something to brighten it up. Maybe a sky blue.” Helen mixed up some blue paint and started to apply it to the canvas.
BOOM! Startled, Helen looked up as her wet brush jerked across the painting. She had been so focused on her artwork, she hadn’t realized that Martin had been standing behind her. It wasn’t until he slammed the basketball on the floor that she was aware of him or the rapidly fading sunlight
“Dad says you need to water the garden,” Martin informed her, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
“You do it, I’m busy,” Helen replied crossly. “Your stunt almost ruined my painting. But lucky for you, that brushstroke was the perfect finishing touch.”
“Finishing touch? Sounds like my timing was perfect. Besides, I already did my chores. Car washed, check. Lawn mowed, check. Fence gate fixed, check. Chores done. Leaves me time to shoot hoops in the morning and work on my tan at the pool in the afternoon. You, however, will slaving in the sun in the morning and roasting in the kitchen in the afternoon. Haha, roasting, in the kitchen, haha. Man, I kill myself sometime,” laughing, Martin moseyed down the hallway to his bedroom.
Helen rolled her eyes and put down her paintbrush. She went downstairs and out the back door. As she unrolled the hose, she heard shouting from the driveway next door. Leaning over the fence, she saw her neighbor, Neil, shooting hoops with some friends.
“Hey Helen, wanna play?” Neil called out.
“Please, she’s a girl, she can’t play!” scoffed Bob, one of the friends gathered in Neil’s driveway.
“Oh really? Just because I’m a girl automatically means I can’t play?” Helen, her temper flaring, narrowed her eyes at him. “Care to wager?”
“Dude, take the bet. I saw their gym class last year. The girls were terrible!” a third guy snickered.
“Which class were you watching?” asked Helen as she unlatched the gate.
“Ninth grade girls, duh!”
“I see. So, what’s the bet?” Helen asked as she bounced on her toes. “And what are the teams?”
“Bob and I, versus you and Peter,” Marshall, the third guy said. “Neil has seen you ‘play’, so he has an unfair advantage. Winners….hmm, winners buy burgers Friday night at Wimpy’s.”
“You’re on!” with a swipe, Helen bounced the ball out of Neil’s hands. “Who is Peter and where is he?”
“I’m Peter. Hey there. Um, what did I walk into?” A dark-haired guy walked out the garage and looked back and forth between Helen and Neil.
“Bob and Marshall don’t believe girls can play basketball and challenged Helen to a game,” Neil explained. “Apparently he watched them in gym glass and has decided, therefore, that no girls can play.”
“Don’t worry, he’s going to lose. My brother Martin and I have been playing one on one since we were little. I can hold my own,” Helen spun around. “Come on, first to ten wins!”
Within minutes, the score was 9-6.
“One point to win. Don’t choke Helen,” Marshall tried to syke Helen out.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” said Helen calmly as she sank a jump shot. “Aaand, that’s a wrap.”
“So, burgers on Friday?” asked Peter, shaking the dark waves out of his eyes.
“Phew, you got lucky Peter. It could have just as easily gone the other way,” Neil said, taking a long drink of water out of the hose draped over the fence.
“Nope. I also saw the girls gym class. There were two ninth grade girls gym classes. One might stink, but the other was taught by the assistant basketball coach. See you later, Helen,” Peter tossed a smile his shoulder as he jogged out of the yard.
“Later Belden!” the other guys chorused.
“And, I have to go water the garden,” Helen went back through the gate and picked up the hose. “Also, I have to work up an appetite for my burger on Friday.” With a smirk, she turned the hose towards the garden.
Early the next morning, Helen was awakened by bright sunlight streaming in her window. “Ugh, morning...oh wait, this light would be a great basis for a painting!” Tossing aside her pillow, Helen jumped out of bed and grabbed a small canvas. Within minutes, she was completely absorbed in her work.
“Knock, knock. Morning, sleepyhead?” Mrs. Johnson softly knocked on the door and poked her head inside the room. “Helen Johnson! I thought you were sleeping. If you are awake enough to paint, you are awake enough to be downstairs doing your chores!” Throwing open the door, Mrs Johnson shook her head, an exasperated expression on her face.
“But Moooom! The light is perfect. Golden. Amber. Ochre. Perfection,” Helen looked at her mother with a pleading expression.
“Yellow. She means yellow. The sun is yellow. Morning Mom,” Meredith pecked her mother on the cheek as she went down the hallway.
“Garden. Now. But the painting is lovely dear,” Mrs Johnson kissed the top of Helen’s head as she grabbed the dirty clothes hamper and started down the hallway. “Remember, I’m scheduled to volunteer all day at the hospital. You and Meredith will be on your own for lunch. And don’t forget the canning today”
Two hours later, a hot Helen stood motionless in the kitchen. On every surface was a newly boiled canning jar. “That’s it?” she asked Meredith, “Those are the only tomatoes?” Helen looked back and forth between her sister and the 6 tomatoes sitting on the counter.
“Yup. There were a bunch on the ground with a bite or two out of them. Looks like the raccoons got to them first. Too bad, you’ll just have to can the rest next week.” Tugging on her blond ponytail, Meredith shifted from foot to foot. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“I can’t! I HAVE to work on my portfolio before school starts the week after. Mrs. Winston expects a complete representation of all mediums,” Helen yelled in frustration. “Besides, I hate canned tomatoes!”
“Too bad you can’t use the green tomatoes. There are a ton of them out there.” Meredith started to chew on her nails while slowly trying to edge her way out of the kitchen.
“I know!! Wait a minute, maybe I can,” running her fingers through her blond curls, Helen thought for a long minute. “It will be an experiment, but are you willing to risk it?” She looked at her sister, her brows raised.
“If it gets us out of eating those gross boiled tomatoes this winter, then I am in! What do you need?” Meredith perked up, ready to spring into action.
“As many medium green tomatoes as you can carry! Neil’s grandmother made an apple and green tomato pie last fall. I am wondering if you can do something similar with an applesauce-like result. Or, maybe pickle them. Cute little appetizers for Mom and Dad’s dinner parties.” Helen started pulling spices out of the cabinet.
Five hours later Helen and Meredith surveyed their results.
“Two jars of baby green tomatoes pickled and ready to enjoy this winter. Two apple and tomato pies cooling. And 10 jars of green tomato relish sealed and ready to go to the pantry. I would say this is a success,” the sisters slapped a high-five.
“Hello girls,” said Mrs. Johnson, entering the kitchen. “How did the canning go?” She stopped and stared at the counter. “Those jars do not look full of tomatoes.” Setting her purse on the table, she grabbed the pile of mail and began to sort through it.
“Well, it turns out there were only about 6 tomatoes. So we canned 3 of them, shared one for lunch and will have two with dinner.
“Yum, smells spicy in here. What’s that smell?” Martin sauntered the kitchen, his beach towel tossed over his shoulder, the smell of sunscreen wafting around the kitchen.
“Helen’s amazing green tomato relish!” Meredith exclaimed with glee. “It’s delicious!”
“Green tomato relish? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” Mrs Johnson put down the mail. Picking up a jar, she closely examined it. ‘It looks like it has the consistency of salsa, but it’s green.”
“It was an experiment. And let me tell you, batches 2, 4, and 7 were not winners,” Meredith looked slightly green at the memory.
“Wait, how many batches did you make? How many tomatoes did you waste?” Mrs Johnson placed the jar on the counter and stared at her daughters, her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t worry Mom, each batch was only a tomato or two. We didn’t waste many,” Helen explained hastily. “I remember Neil’s grandmother made a green tomato and apple pie last year. I figured we could probably make something like it in an applesauce consistency. It didn’t exactly work out that way, but I think you will be pleased with the results. We also made an apple pie for dessert.”
“Apple? You mean, apple and gre-”Meredith was quickly cut off by Helen.
“Yep, an apple pie for dessert. Maybe we should grill pork for dinner,” Helen suggested, looking around the kitchen. On every available surface was either a dirty cooking tool or jar of canned goods. “If we do that and finish off the leftover macaroni and cheese, we won’t have many dishes. Plus, you won’t slave over a hot stove. And, you can try the relish with it.” Crossing her fingers, she hoped her idea would appeal to her mother.
“I like the way that sounds,” agreed Mrs. Johnson. “Let me change and I can start reheating the macaroni.”
Meanwhile Martin was standing by the counter with an assortment of food arrayed before him. Studiously, he put a small spoonful of the relish on a rolled slice of bologna, a piece of bread, a slice of an apple, and a waffle.
“What are you doing?” Helen gathered up the dirty pots and pans on the counter.
“Finding the best way to eat this new recipe you have,” Martin explained, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes closed. “Waffle - bad choice. Apple - meh. Bread - okay. Bologna - pretty good. I think this will work. Yes, I think we can consider this a success. Although, if I end up with botulism later, I rescind that statement.” Martin tossed his napkin in the trash and wandered out of the kitchen.
“No, it’s fine. I would be happy to clean up after you. Thanks!” Helen yelled as she stowed the waffles and bread in the freezer and put the remaining bologna in the meat drawer.
“Hey there. Did I see Martin come in?” Neil poked his head in the back door.
“Yeah, he went that way. Want to do me a favor?” Helen asked as she wiped down the counters. “I tried a new relish recipe. Would you be willing to test it out at your house and let me know what you think?”
“Sure. Can I grab a jar on my way out? I was at the school today getting my schedule and heard some basketball rumors that I want to discuss with Martin.” Neil lingered in the doorway.
“Perfect, just grab the jar there when you leave,” Helen gestured towards a jar on the end of the counter. “I want to do some painting before dinner.”
Once the kitchen was cleaned to Mrs. Johnson’s high standards, Helen escaped to her bedroom. “Ugh, it’s so hot. Darn it! This painting is still tacky. I shouldn’t have stopped this morning. There’s no point in even starting another painting.” Debating the merits of colored pencils versus charcoal, Helen grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal pencils and ran out to the back patio. She quickly settled into a chair and started to sketch.
“Thanks, Helen. I grabbed the relish. How should I tell Mom to use it?” Neil banged out the back door, a canning jar in his hand.
Helen paused, her pencil poised mid-air. “Well, it started as an attempt to recreate your grandmother’s apple and green tomato pie recipe. Batch one was sweet. It was okay, but neither Meredith and I loved it. So went tried the other way, more savory and spicy,” Helen stretched as she shook out her cramping fingers.“Savory eh. Fancy words. You’ve been watching your Julia Child,” Neil teased as he started down the steps. “So, it ended up savory?”
“Yes, it’s got onion, garlic, some red peppers, vinegar, and a few other secrets. We’re going to try it with grilled pork chops tonight.” Hearing the timer ping in the kitchen, Helen sighed and closed her sketchbook. “I guess I’m done here. By the way, did you get your basketball news sorted out?”
“Yeah, just some rumors about coaching changes. I’ll let you know what we think of the relish. See ya later,” rather than walking to the gate, Neil vaulted over the fence and headed inside his house.
Helen shook her head and stepped into the kitchen. “Smells great in here Mom,” she said. “Do you need me to set the table?”
“No, Meredith already did it. Martin is helping your father finish up grilling and then we should be all set. I put your relish in a dish on the table.”
After the family was all seated, Mr. Johnson turned to his eldest daugher. “I hear we are in for a delicious treat. You brother said your relish is great.”
“Whoa, whoa, I did not use the word ‘great’. I said it would work. I still reserve the right to change my mind,” Martin said quickly. Belying his words, he piled the relish on his pork chop and started eating with gusto.
“It was an experiment that turned out okay. I really just wanted to get the tomatoes canned so I could get back to my painting,” Helen took a bite of the relish with some of the macaroni and cheese. The spicy relish added the perfect zing to the creamy cheese sauce.
Mr. Johnson smiled at his daughter. “Well my dear, you might not have painted a masterpiece yet, but this sure tastes like one.”