Tomato Love

It’s a warm July morning and I am just old enough to be in the yard by myself. Without my brothers and sister to distract me with suggestions of play, I head straight to our family garden. We live in a fairly quiet neighborhood, nestled just outside of town in the sprawling woods that will become my favorite playground when I’m older. Crossing our wide backyard, I hear just a slight wind threading through the trees, birds chirping and the neighbor’s beagle barking as a car drives by. The sun is already warm, and I’m eager to go to the pool after lunch. I arrive at the large garden, which is faithfully tended to by my dad. About half of the garden is dedicated to strawberries, already enjoyed in early summer. The other half contains my favorite – tomatoes. 

Reaching towards the sun, the tomato plants are tall with stems and leaves that know their value and, thus, can’t fully be contained by the metal support cages. Their fruit has recently begun to ripen. My timing today is perfect for a snack to hold me over until Mom makes peanut butter and jellies cut into triangles for lunch. I start with the cherry tomatoes, nimbly plucking a few and popping them into my mouth, one by one. Bursts of flavor are my reward. Cherry tomatoes are sweet, but not juicy enough to satisfy my craving so I push some of the greenery around to look for a classic red round tomato. With my upper body fully enveloped among the plants, the scent of the tomatoes surrounds me. My kinder vocabulary doesn’t quite have the right word for the grassy, herby scent, but the perfume is welcome. I then spot two perfect tomatoes, small enough for me to easily handle.

I carry my treasure into the shade and plop down, arranging myself criss-cross applesauce with the tomatoes in my lap. Rummaging in the pocket of my dress, I retrieve the salt shaker, thieved from the kitchen. I take a little bite out of the first tomato to remove some of the skin, then shake a bit of salt onto the revealed flesh. The taste is satisfying, salty and sweet. I go in for another bite and then another. Juice runs down my arm but I’m too busy salting the seedy core to care. The first tomato is finished quickly; the second is greedily eaten in the same manner. Sated, I wipe my fingers on the grass and enjoy the peace of the yard before heading back inside.

As an adult, this core memory comes back to me summer after summer. My hands, no longer childlike and dimpled at the knuckles, now tend to my own tomatoes. My first garden, tilled by my father, provided rich soil and ample sunshine that lent me a gentle learning curve as I cared for my plants. My success was celebrated with an annual party, where the guests of honor were tomatoes picked fresh that week and dressed in their best – gently folded into summer salads, bathed in vinaigrettes and herbs and tucked into savory tomato tarts. 

In my current garden, my triumph hasn’t come as easily. No matter, as my dedication is strong. With consultation from Dad, my tomato plants are now respectable and I enjoy my daily purveyance in the dappled morning light. After the watering, I step onto the pavers in my small urban plot and inspect my plants for ripe fruit to fill my wanting baskets. Eating tomatoes straight from the plant is still a common pleasure as I perform my favorite chore. When the harvest is complete, a photo of the jewel-like fruit is proudly sent to my parents before heading inside. 

In the kitchen, my bounty gets washed and set onto clean towels to dry. Later, the tomatoes are sorted. Cherry tomatoes and Sungolds go into snacking bowls.  Early Girls are set aside for BLTs or to serve with fried eggs. The heirlooms will be paired with ricotta for tartines or simply sliced and sprinkled with coarse salt and pepper, maybe a dash of good vinegar. And, finally, a small variety is placed into a paper bag for sharing with a neighbor or a friend; someone who will know that with these tomatoes, I am also giving them a part of me.