Today, I just want to write about tomatoes. It’s September and the season of proper tomatoes.
It’s also the week of our move, and the kitchen’s packed away. We’ve been working through the last of the pasta and frozen peas. There’s no more rice left. Lots of tea in the cupboard, and plenty in the pot as we pack and as the Spouse finishes off the last perfections of the Dissertation. But lunch was sardines on toast. And I want to think about tomatoes.
In today’s paper, there was a recipe for green tomato marmalade, which sounded nice. And it would look super on a shelf. But I’m trying to not think about shelves, and only about late summer perfection.
At the market this morning, the tables were heaped with tomatoes. Big, heavy, red ones, perfect for picnic slicing, and flanked with bunches of basil. And there were smaller toms too, yellow ones to catch the eye- and orange and striped and ridged and wonderful. There were even some that looked purply-black. They all looked so novel sitting there, like creative still life paintings, but also like the produce of a different age. I liked that the sign says heirloom. Charmingly paradoxical for such seasonal fruit.
I remember the summer tomatoes in the garden where I grew up. Growing, they smelled dusty and green, and sharply floral, too. When they were finally ripe, my father picked them gently from the plant. I carried them into the kitchen, one warm in each hand, and placed them in my mother’s waiting palms. That was my job. My sister loved eating them in sandwiches with far too much pepper. And these tomatoes were always compared to the tomatoes my grandfather grew, which must have been much better. If only because they, too, were remembered.
But I also remember not quite liking tomatoes as a child. The taste was too strong, too biting. My Blue felt the same way at first. The week he discovered tomatoes was the same week that he first tasted strawberries. Sliced, they look very similar. Taste – not so much. Luckily, there was a grandfather on hand with a camera to capture the moment of revelation.
Now, he’d happily eat a plateful of tomatoes. Or at least, this week, he’d happily eat a plateful. (You never can tell with kids.) He likes fat, fresh slices he can slurp up or tiny cherry toms he can eat in one pop. I have to take a little bite off the top of each one or he can’t quite manage them between his teeth once he gets them in. So, some for me and some for him. I hear lycopene is good for you.
My favourite Presbyterian foodie blogger (if I can out her like that) has been inspirational recently with the tomatoes, too. Have a look. And here, too. The camera loves that colour, doesn’t it? And I love the simplicity of the recipes. Thanks for sharing, Jenn.
I’d love to add these to the Bible eating series, but, of course, that doesn’t work. Tomatoes didn’t arrive in the Mediterranean region until the sixteenth century and, in the Middle East, not until sometime in the nineteenth century. But we can imagine, can’t we?
Loaves and fishes, and small cherry toms aplenty to share. Beefsteaks sitting perfectly on Martha’s window sill. And Jenn’s mini capreses delighting the thirsty crowds at the wedding in Cana.
Or perhaps, we can imagine an older story that casts tomatoes as the forbidden fruit. Sure, the “tree” of knowledge would have been an exaggeration, but if Jesus could exaggerate mustard into a tree, then perhaps it isn’t too much of a stretch for tomatoes. They do tower when you let them. And the fruit (because it is a fruit) is lusciously tempting when perfectly ripe. Of course, we hear of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, but what about the fruit? Did it get to stay in Paradise? Maybe it too faced exile. Maybe it too had some wandering to do.
Happy September. Happy tomato eating.
Next time, from my new home and kitchen.
