The Kitchen Garden – Part 1: Tomatoes

"There are four hundred tomatoes," said Henri.

"There are not four hundred."

"There are at least three hundred and ninety."

Odile surveyed the kitchen garden: a riot of vines, basil, courgettes and sunflowers sprawling behind the farmhouse in the hot Provençal light. She was forty-four, a hospital administrator, burnt out and sunburnt. He was forty-seven, a lawyer, equally exhausted, with a straw hat and a bucket.

They had rented the farmhouse for a month, on a whim, after a bad winter. Their children were grown. Their jobs were relentless. Somewhere in the long grey years, she thought, they had stopped playing.

"We can't cook," she said.

"We can learn."

"There is a book."

"Excellent. We'll read the book."

The first meal was a catastrophe: burnt onions, raw potatoes, a sauce that tasted of nothing. They ate it anyway, on the terrace, under a sky flushed pink, with a bottle of cold rosé. Cicadas sang. The hills behind the house turned lavender.

The second meal was better. The third, almost edible. By the end of the first week, Odile could roast a tomato until its skin split and sweetened, and Henri had learned to make pistou from the basil. They cooked together in the big stone kitchen, barefoot, flour on their noses, laughing at each other's mistakes.

"Can I ask you something?" said Odile, one evening, stirring.

"Yes."

"When did we last cook together?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"We always ordered in."

She put down her spoon. "Henri. That's terrible."

"It is. I'm sorry. Let's fix it."

"Green?" she said, quietly, the old word.

"Green," said Henri. "Very green. Taste this."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Long Evening.