We buy them reluctantly from our local farmers' market in early July, knowing they've been coaxed early and under plastic. And while they're not as tasteless as commercial tomatoes, they're far from the sun-kissed fruit that will come later.
As any vegetable gardener will attest, the best tomatoes come straight from one's own garden and, in all humility, ours are no exception. In fact, tomatoes are probably the reason Mr. Mulch ever got into vegetable gardening in the first place. We grow several varieties of heirlooms for eating and paste tomatoes for sauce and purees. Their names are as intoxicating as their flavors, and in the interminably dark days of February when we're starting to plan the next year's garden, simply reciting the names can trigger intense drooling: Pruden's Purple, Black Krim, Fourth of July (which missed its due date this year), Cherokee Purple, Japanese Black Triffle, Rose de Berne, Brandy Boy, ginormous bulbous Black Brandywine, and the literal, but oh so luscious, Yellow Brandywine.
Right now the vines are filled with fruit in various stages of redness -- and some yellowness. Some are so heavily laden it's a wonder they're still upright. And when the vines look like this...
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| Fruit on the vine |
The garden basket I use to carry the day's haul looks like this...
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| Fruit in the basket |
Any conversation about the days' menu starts with the assumption that tomatoes will figure into the eating one way or another. At the beginning of this surfeit, we usually start with a taste test. That's how we decide which of the year's new varieties will be making a return appearance next season. The biggest challenge in sampling is remembering which variety we're actually eating. Apart from the yellow beefsteak, which is a no-brainer, it's sometimes hard to tell the difference between a Brandy Boy and a Brandywine once they're on the plate. So this year I resorted to a very lo-tech approach to keeping things straight.
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| Fruit on the plate... |
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| ... and soon to be in the tummy |
From this point on, our indulging in tomatoes becomes a bit... shall we say... orgiastic? We eat them with virtually every meal. Mr. Mulch is a bit of a purist, so the largest and tastiest are simply peeled, sliced, and devoured. But even he gets to the point where he's willing to accept some tampering with their natural deliciousness. When that happens, I often resort to a wonderful tomato tart recipe I found in the New York Times several years ago -- Granny's Tomato Tart. It has several appealing attributes, not the least of which is that it uses up quite a few large tomatoes. But it also includes a shot of Dijon mustard, a layer of gruyere which bonds with the crust and keeps the tomatoes from making it soggy, and a sprinkling of whatever herbs I want to grab from the herb garden.
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| Here are the tarts, all assembled and ready to cook |
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| After cooking, they don't look much different, but oh, the aroma! |
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| Ready to eat, with a little avocado garnish -- yum! |
There is one problem with growing your own tomatoes -- though it is, as they say, a good problem to have. No matter how carefully you plan; no matter how intensely you've looked forward to this, the only time of the year when you can eat them three times a day if you want; no matter how much gazpacho you make; no matter how much sauce you put up in neat ball jars to provide solace through the long winter; no matter what you do -- at some point in August, you will be completely overwhelmed. Because every time you make a trip to the garden, you return with this:
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| Just a quick, casual harvest today |
And then, something unthinkable happens. Although your every instinct cries out against it, and you know you'll regret this come next December, you can't. Possibly. Eat. Another. Tomato. And so you start looking for neighbors, friends, casual acquaintances on whom to offload some of your bounty.
Happily, that's also the point where you discover just how many friends you do have!
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