Roasted Tomatoes and Small Restorations
Tomato soup, home projects, and the strange art of coming back to yourself.
Oh hi. Remember me? The last couple months have been more full of paint splatter than I hoped — but here we are, reemerging into the kitchen just as the world outside begins to release its leaves, its acorns, the fruits of its efforts.
A lot of the summer got away from me, but maybe this is the moment to close one season and begin another — with the same tomatoes and basil, just on a longer simmer.
Thanks for sticking around and being part of this small, real corner of the internet — where life and food keep unfolding even when we pause to shore up foundations for the long haul.
Hey food friends! 👋 I’m Kaitlynn, half of a food-loving couple 🍜 exploring DC (& beyond) who knows the best connections happen at a shared table 🍽️. Whether you're searching for the best hidden restaurants in Mexico City, trying to master your grandma's marinara 🍅, or just craving something real, I’m here with dishes (and discussions) that make life more interesting. Come hungry, leave inspired. ✨🍴
Our next series, Fall at the Table is a quiet return to what steadies us. Each dish is a small restoration — the kind that happens when the air cools, the soup simmers, and we start paying internal attention again. It’s showing up at the table even when we’re tired enough to face-plant into the stew.
Here, we cook what we can, laugh when we spill, and remember that sharing a meal is still one of the oldest ways to hold each other up when the earth shifts — tomatoes simmered into calm, bread rising with patience, herbs carrying their quiet medicine into the pot.
The Shift
I’ve been on “fast-forward” lately — too much, too fast — the same feeling that once pushed me to start this blog. I sort of retrograded through that impulse again this summer, consumed by this house project, but possibly in a more rooted, grounding way.
So yes, part of me is relieved the chill hasn’t quite fully set in yet, though I’ll also celebrate the day frost bids final farewell to the mosquitoes.
Somewhere in the chaos, I made roasted tomato soup for a camping trip — grilled cheese, campfire bacon, and that little-known perfect mid-fall DC weather that makes you remember how food can revive you.
At home, I’ve been baking zucchini bread on repeat because it’s the only way my daughter currently requests vegetables — which feels, honestly, like a significant parenting win.
Saving What We Can
I should probably be a canner by now — especially given who my grandparents were — but here we are. Maybe next year. For now, sauce/ extra soup base goes into the freezer, and that’s enough.
To me, the act of saving is more than storage. It’s a way of claiming something from a fleeting season. Every culture has its rituals of keeping: drying, fermenting, salting, simmering. Preserving flavor and memory at once. Maybe that’s what sauce-making really is — a kind of everyday medicine.
Tomatoes bring their slow, sun-built vitamins into winter, basil adds its calm, fragrant clarity, and we carry both forward in a form that can last. A way to let summer take a back burner so fall can finally step forward.
This year has also given more than a couple of us a run for our money in some unexpected and serious ways. Among them (far from chief), is that my oven is on the fritz and I may or may not need to flip the breaker just to turn it off. This is fine and normal for 2025 and anyway I’m getting it looked at and lighting a candle for luck just in case.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what we hold onto and what we let go of — not just in seasons, but in ourselves. The kitchen teaches both. You gather what’s left from the garden, what’s a little bruised but still bright, and you turn it into something that carries you forward.
Roasted Tomato Soup: How I Do It (Loosely)
This isn’t a recipe. Sauce resists being pinned down. But here’s the gist:
Let me just say right here that store-bought soup or marinara can be lovely. Do what you need, go half and half or take the parts that work for you and recognize the goodness on your plate that is going to carry you forward. We’re all just doing our best here.
This works as a sauce or a soup, just adjust the stock/water levels.
If you find yourself with a bit of time, the need to decompress and enjoy something special, step on into my flavor office:
🍅 Roast the tomatoes (optional but magical)
3 lbs tomatoes, halved + olive oil + salt + pepper + balsamic drizzle or really any herbs you want - I love rosemary and sage.
400°F for 40-45 minutes until caramelized
(Canned tomatoes work great too—many beloved Italian Grandma’s recipes use them!)
🥕 Build the base (in a large pot)
Sauté veggies - carrots + celery (see also onion, shallot, garlic) in butter or olive oil, 8-10 minutes. Carrots are also great roasted, or a mix of both, which I opted for in our batch. You can also add more chunky vegetables (cauliflower, zuchini, broccoli, go crazy) if you want a sort of chunky marinara
Stir in 2-3 tbsp tomato paste, cook 2 minutes
Add roasted tomatoes and 1-4 cups stock (chicken or veggie) depending on if you want more of a marinara situation or a soup.
Toss in: a bay leaf, maybe some more rosemary and sage, a few basil stems, pinch of sugar
Simmer 15-20 minutes
✨ Blend & finish
Fish out bay leaves and basil
Optional: add a few chopped fresh tomatoes
Blend until smooth (immersion blender or batches in regular blender)
Stir in cream or butter
Season with salt, pepper, lemon juice
Tear in fresh basil leaves
🥪 Genius move: Serve with grilled cheese. Bonus points for bacon.
💡 Use it up: Freeze extras. Later: pizza sauce, pasta, with roasted chicken, pan con tomate...
That’s it. Flexible, forgiving, a practice more than a formula.
Tomato soup like this doesn’t just feed you — it restores you. Lycopene, the deep red pigment that builds as tomatoes cook, is known for its heart-protective qualities. Basil brings circulation and clarity — it’s a small thing, but that fresh, green inhale when you tear the leaves over a hot pot is medicine too.
Second-Grader Approved Zuchini Bread
🥒 What You Need
1.5 cups shredded zucchini (about 1 medium)
1.5 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cups sugar
1 tbsp honey
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/2 cup coconut or olive oil
🥄 How to Make It
Prep:
Preheat oven to 350°F
Grease a 9x5-inch loaf pan
Grate zucchini (no need to peel), gently squeeze out excess moisture
Mix:
Whisk together: flour + sugar + baking soda + cinnamon + salt
In another bowl: beat eggs, mix in oil + honey
Pour wet into dry, stir until just combined
Fold in shredded zucchini
Bake:
Pour batter into prepared pan
40-50 minutes
Done when toothpick comes out with moist crumbs
Cool: 10 minutes in pan, then turn out onto wire rack
💡 Tips
Top browning too fast? Tent with foil and keep baking
Stays moist for days at room temperature
Freezes beautifully for up to 3 months
Zucchini, humble as it is, carries a quiet medicine too — hydrating, rich in potassium, and easy to digest.
And hey—if paid membership isn’t doable, we get it. But even a one-time donation keeps the feast going. Thanks for being part of this table.
Coming Back to the Table
I’m so grateful to finally have time to be back in the kitchen and at my keyboard to post here. I had hoped to be more present online this summer, but as with many previous projects, it was harder than I thought. I’m also so proud of what it means for my ability to stand on my own two feet and continue being who I want to be in this world, campfire bacon and all.
We’re not quite at the finish line in our house project, but we’re close — close enough to imagine welcoming someone to live there soon. Send your good vibes that excellent humans who need a home will find us.
This pot of sauce and bread is my way of coming back, bit by bit. The first plates in a season-long table we’ll share here.
And like so many pots before, it’s communal. Sauce has a way of drawing people in — family, friends, whoever’s lucky enough to smell it. You can always stretch it, add a little pasta, and make room at the table.
Plenty of people are having a rougher year than my family, but with a lot of time to think, the more I keep thinking that this is the magic no matter the context. When we keep our focus on and movements towards what is good and grounding and real and present — the ways we can support each other, this is where resolve comes from. I can choose to reach for joy in what we have and build the best I can for today and tomorrow.
In some ways it can feel like gaslighting yourself to be so determinedly positive despite the world today, but what is the point of all of this if not to grow - to point to what is worth noticing and sustaining ourselves with despite the circumstances. I ask myself what is worth giving my attention to? What is worth expressing gratitude for? Let’s make those parts of our lives bigger and bring them with us into the future.
Lately I’ve found myself leaning toward slower things — long books, unhurried podcasts, anything that lets my thoughts stretch out past the scroll. It’s one of the few ways I’ve been able to keep my head on straight through the noise of renovation, parenting, and just… life right now. Maybe that’s part of this season’s medicine too — trading the quick hit for something that actually nourishes.
What I’m Reading (and Listening To):
Nassim Taleb’s Antifragile — Real, good thoughts on why we’re not just meant to bounce back from chaos, but to grow stronger because of it.
What Now? with Trevor Noah - Kara Swisher on Tech, Power, and Why you should get the f*cking duck I always appreciate this podcast’s ability to understand America, while having some real perspective to help me see the forest for the trees. This episode is a great one in that vein.
Dante’s Divine Comedy — yes, the one about hell (and eventually heaven). Turns out it’s also about getting unstuck, step by step, which feels... topical.
What’s coming next?
Bread, roots, soup — the beauty of slowing things down and making them more real in a season that is begging us to find our feet and move forward.
Thank you for being here, for coming back to this table with me. I hope it feels like a small exhale — the kind we all need right now.
Welcome back.
Welcome to Fall at the Table.