I guess
I was about nine years old when I had my first memorable encounter
with a tomato. David and I were exploring the backyards of
Evergreen Street on an aimless summer day. (Our Midwestern
neighborhoods had yet to discover fences, landscaping, or
privacy.) We'd stumbled upon a big stack of rocks—something
that could easily occupy two boys for hours...comparing colors
and sizes...building, arranging. We were completely fascinated.
Nothing else existed. "This one looks like Idaho."
Lost in that stony world, I couldn't have seen it coming.
SMACK! I turned around, my back stinging, and there stood
the enemy: two other boys armed with hard, green tomatoes.
We'd been ambushed. Smaller and unarmed, there was
but one humiliating option available to us. "RUN!"
We ran with all the fury of the blazing July sun—t-shirts
flailing, our short legs pumping, fear of death pounding in
our ears. I looked over my shoulder. Green bombs and vicious
insults hurtled toward us, when Dave suddenly stopped. He
turned and yelled, "You're dumb! You're throwing away
your lunch!" I thought that in the world's long history
of lame comebacks, that one had to be the lamest. Thirty years
later, I'm still embarrassed.
It could only get better. Little did I know that, eventually,
tomatoes would become one of my great passions. And thirty
years later, they make my favorite summer lunch. No contest.
Sitting in the rocker on the deck, the oscillating fan on
high, a plate of colorful heirloom
tomatoes in my lap, a napkin covered in polka dots of
pink juice—and I'm in heaven.
Just a few short years ago, I knew little of heirloom tomatoes.
They were oddities occasionally found in some Culinary Trends
recipe. So, for years, I rarely ate tomatoes. Maybe
I'd given up. I don't know. Infected with the vivid memory
of fat, red, succulent, homegrown tomatoes from dad's garden,
commercial varieties became a bland, grainy exercise in sad
compromise. But one day, several summers ago, I stepped inside
a new produce store and was instantly mesmerized by the heirlooms
calling out to me. Fat, shiny, colorful, glistening jewels
displayed in humble baskets. Red, purple, yellow, brown, green.
I'd never seen anything like it. The sign declared them to
be tomatoes, they smelled like tomatoes, some
even looked like tomatoes, but most had the appearance
of something a "Lost
in Space" set dresser would have put on the Robinsons'
dinner plates.
Now, in the age of enlightenment, heirloom tomatoes are popping
up everywhere. The strains seem to be an endless list of curious,
homespun names juxtaposed to grand, poetic ones befitting
European royalty: Hazel Mae, Brandywine, Aunt Gertie's Gold,
Mr. Stripey, Earl of Edgecomb, Old Virginia, Noir de Crimee,
Sasha Altai, Hank. Hank? Yup, Hank is an heirloom tomato.
So, just what is an heirloom tomato? I'm glad you asked.
Well, not really, because the question inspires more controversy
than answers. And, frankly, I just want a great tomato. But
if you must have a definition, an heirloom tomato is,
strictly speaking, a variety that has been passed down through
generations of a family or a community. There are commercial
varieties and varieties from cross pollination and many varieties
with debatable heritage. Some define heirloom tomatoes as
only varieties pre-dating the advent of industrial agriculture
circa 1945. But most authorities do agree on this:
heirloom tomatoes are open-pollinated, not genetically modified.
And delicious.
I'm mostly concerned with delicious. Heirloom tomatoes come
in a dizzying spectrum of colors and shapes. But it's the
assortment of flavors that really excites me: sweet
and mild, tangy, herbaceous, berry-flavored, citrus-flavored,
cucumber-y, melon-ish, even chocolate-esque.
The first heirloom of the season, I eat unadorned. No salt,
no herbs. I don't cut it. I hesitate to wash it. The glory
of that initial mouthful shouldn't be tainted. I'd even light
a candle in reverence, but the odor would interfere with the
taste. There will be time for dressing them up, later in the
season, but the first bite needs room to cast its spell. My
teeth feel the gentle resistance of the skin and I breathe
in the tomato's thick, earthy essence. The gushing burst,
the dribble down the chin, the sweet, acidy relish as I chew
the soft pulp. Sex turns into a distant, pale memory; nothing
could be more sensual than this. Then, the subsequent bites—big
and fast. Tomato becomes predator; no longer do I consume
it; it consumes me. And I'm gone. What a beautiful
lostness. That magic happens only once a year, so I treat
it with the respect it deserves.
When the first tomato is polished off, I feel free to
play with a slew of possibilities. The tomato pairs so well
with so many flavors that I'm hesitant to suggest too much,
but here are a few of my current favorites:
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heirloom
tomatoes with Fleur de Sel and lemon zest
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I've never been a big fan of designer salts; they've always seemed
so unnecessarily pretentious and the flavor difference is negligible
in light of the awful expense. But my sister recently sent me
a jar of
Fleur de Sel de Guerande and
I wound up gleefully eating my words. Fleur de Sel is preternaturally
bright, clean, and lemony. When the tomato is speckled with this
coarse salt, it's like twins separated at birth, crying and rejoicing
at their fortuitous reunion. It's, now, the only finishing salt
I use on tomatoes. An extremely spare sprinkle of finely grated
lemon zest and I'm prostrate. Few things in life are as perfect
as this.
heirloom tomato and goat cheese tart
| I don't generally use recipes when I cook, so I won't give you
one; but you can easily fill in the gaps with a few Internet searches.
Make a savory, Parmesan tart crust and, after it cools, spread
a thin layer of soft goat cheese on the bottom. On top of the
goat cheese, layer tomato slices two or three thick. Make sure
the sliced tomatoes have already drained well in a colander or
paper towel. Cover and refrigerate the tart a couple of hours
to set. Sprinkle fresh herbs over the tomatoes just before serving.
Almost any combination of chopped fresh herbs will work. If you're
unsure, go light on the herbs so they don't overpower the tomatoes.
It's a nice tart with which to be creative, too. Add another cheese,
add pine nuts, roasted garlic, play with the flavors. With a green
salad, this makes for a lovely summer lunch.
heirloom tomatoes with bleu cheese and olive oil
| Start with a platter of thickly sliced tomatoes, maybe half
an inch thick. I like to crumble an artisanal bleu cheese on top,
like Bleu
de Brebis or Saint
Agur, but a quality commercial bleu works in a pinch. Then,
drizzle a light stream of good finishing olive oil over the tomato
and cheese. Look for an olive oil in a dark bottle, if possible;
light hastens rancidness. And look for the first cold press, unfiltered
extra virgin variety. Temecula
Olive Oil Company produces some fabulous oils that pair seamlessly
with tomatoes.
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Don't ever
refrigerate any fresh tomato. It makes the flesh grainy and ruins
the flavor. Once a tomato is ripe, eat it within two to three
days. If it starts to over-ripen, your best bet is to freeze it
and use it later for cooking. But don't try to slow or stop the
ripening in the refrigerator. You might as well spit on Julia
Child's grave.
Store your fresh heirloom tomatoes on a windowsill or in a basket.
It's better if the tomatoes don't touch, but a basket of heirloom
tomatoes in the kitchen is like having a Monet
on loan from the Louvre.
Sometimes, I can't resist it.
There are countless tomato recipes, and I'll bet most of them
are great. But I suggest you just get creative and find your own
ways to enjoy heirlooms. And sometimes—no, often—treat
them as the main dish. Heirloom tomatoes are the grand diva, the
Maria
Callas of summer. What vegetable can take center stage better
than a tomato? Like a brilliant, skillful actor, it shines beautifully
in a supporting role; however, it usually warrants top billing.
Tomato season will be over sooner than a Vegas
wedding, so get going. It's the hottest, briefest, love affair
you'll have all spell. You may need to do some hunting to find
a good, organic, local source, but the reward is sizable: an afternoon
with the most luscious, sultry, venerable vixen of the summer
harvest. Sophia
Loren, eat your heart out.
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