We are a deserving people. We bear down under the barrage of cold and wetness for some eight months, to emerge into the light for the remaining four. We understand our lot in life, we choose it. We have stronger character for the winters we suffer, and we have a deeper love and appreciation for the summers that thaw us. Looking forward to the gifts of the sun, we revel on our bike paths, enjoy our many outdoor dining options, and throw fests at every turn for every reason. If there is one icon to give form to our passions about summer, to illustrate the brief hedonistic streak in an otherwise puritan life, it is the food that is all about joy—the tomato.
Round, red, and luscious, the tomato is the picture of pleasure. It has no rough outer shell to peel, no artichoke-like defenses. It is soft and fleshy to the touch. You need not worry about stems, cores, or nasty pits; the seeds simply slide down your chin with the first ravenous bite.
Indigenous to Central and South America, the tomato was cultivated by the Incas and Aztecs as early as 700 C.E. The conquistadors took the Nahuatl name tamatl along with the fruit and introduced it to Europe in the 1500s. At first the tomato found its most loyal following among the hot-blooded Mediterranean countries of Spain, Portugal, and Italy. The Italians, so enamored of this succulent fruit dubbed it pomo d’oro or apple of gold. You have to wonder—Who were the Italians before the tomato?
As the tomato moved north, its legend grew. The French renamed it pomo d’amore, or the love apple. The Germans called it the apple of paradise, believing it to be the actual “apple” offered to Adam by Eve. But many, like the British, shunned the red beauty as a poisonous berry. Perhaps because it’s in the nightshade family, they had a right to be nervous. In fact the foliage of a tomato plant is poisonous. During the 18th century the Linnaean name of the plant was coferred—Lycopersicon esculentum, but it was known as “wolf’s peach.”
Unfortunately the fear of tomatoes traveled with the colonists as they set out for the New World. It wasn’t until the 1800s when the Creoles in New Orleans unleashed the tomato in this country with their fiery gumbos and jambalayas. By the 1850s the tomato was in produce carts and home gardens in every city in America. In fact some of the varieties begun in gardens at that time are considered priceless gems today.
The “heirloom” tomato has been bandied about on chic menus for a few summers already. With names like Green Zebra, Blondkopfchen, Mr. Stripey, and Eva Purple Ball, these are definitely the showgirls of your vegetable garden. Some of these varieties have been around since the 200 years passing from family to family, and some have been created in the past decade through cross pollination. Regardless of their lineage, the heirloom market has boomed and thereby created more colorful, complex, tasty fruits.
And yes, the tomato is a fruit. If you want to get into a heated, passionate discussion, gather a botanist and a chef to discuss the intractable fruit-or-vegetable controversy. The botanist will have logic and science on his side. He will point out that generally, a fruit is the edible part of the plant that contains the seeds, while a vegetable is the edible stems, leaves, and roots of the plant. Fruits are apples, oranges, papayas. Vegetables are cauliflower, carrots, and rhubarb. At this point the chef will throw down her tongs and scoff. Papayas and tomatoes in the same camp?! If not by science, then by common law, she will say, the tomato lives with vegetables, making a much more palatable existence among the garlic, onions, and savory foods of the world. Leave the syrupy sweet stuff to the trees. The tomato will dwell with the ground vegetables.
It hardly matters, when you contemplate that first beautiful vine-ripened tomato from your garden. One that in the throes of spring planting was only a vision in your head as you patiently waited for the sun to work its mojo. The rubbery tomatoes in the grocery aisle that are hydroponically grown are meant to give you a December fix, to reawaken the frozen part of the tongue where summer lives; that’s all. Beware any restaurant that offers a tomato bruschetta or caprese in November or March. They should be held accountable for their light pink/whitish affront to the senses.
The true and pure way to enjoy summer is to take pleasure in a tomato straight from the plant. Carry a small dish of kosher salt out to the garden, pluck and sprinkle. Stand there with the warm August sun beating on your neck, the juice running down your arm. Heady from the buzz of the garden around you, savor that moment—like only a sunburned Minnesotan can.
The Second Best Way to Eat Your Garden Tomatoes
A Mess of Caprese
Traditional mozzarella caprese is usually sliced and laid out in layers. I think this way is more fun and gives a bigger bang in each mouthful.
Coarsely chop three or four big fat tomatoes. Throw them in a big bowl. Tear a ball of fresh mozzarella into little chunks. Throw them in the bowl. Grab a handful of fresh basil, chop it how you like, throw it in the bowl. Roughly chop or mince three cloves of garlic, in it goes. Get some good extra virgin olive oil and douse the mess in the bowl. Don’t be afraid to jump in with your hands and toss it around a bit. Try not to make it too soupy.
Cracked pepper and salt it to your liking. Maybe some red pepper flakes?
All you need now is a big crusty loaf of bread as your fork. And a hammock.
Stephanie March is a Minneapolis writer.
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