Friends,
we are back from a short trip to Italy to visit my family. Spending
some time in the garden with my grandmother, looking at
her beautiful tomatoes, made me think of these memories related, you guessed it, to
tomatoes.
Possibly the strongest flavour and connection I have to where I am
from, and to the most beautiful time of the year there: summer.
—-
On
our first year in London, we tried to grow tomatoes. We had just moved
from Italy in early March, and settled into our one bedroom apartment
with no balcony or yard but lots of natural light and a big table by
April.
Short after our move, Jesse declared one night at dinner that
no, we didn't have to give up our dream of a vegetable patch, and that
yes,
we could make it work just as well indoor. There was certainly no lack
of light for photosynthesis! He then bought some heirloom seeds from a company in the US, vases at the local hardware store, and he treated our seeds to organic dirt and compost. We placed some
of the vases with dirt and seeds by the window sill, and some on the
portion of the table we didn't use for our meals and served as a
desk. It was sacrificed in the name of tomatoes.
I must say, it wasn't the most successful of our experiments. After a cruel selection
of the best plants due to a lack of space, we let those who stayed grow so tall they
almost reached the ceiling. We bought sticks, but the plants were
standing in a sort of precarious balance, and I was knocking one down every time I
ran the vacuum cleaner. Exasperated – from the dirt on the floor, the
herds of small bugs flying around the house, and the visible lack of
fruits on the plant, the sight of which would have made me feel like all these effort were somehow worthwhile – I menaced to get rid of them all. Jesse
succeeded in dissuade me from these tomato-cide thoughts, and finally by the end of the summer we
managed to harvest fifteen cherry tomatoes of various colours from the five surviving plants. They were, as you can imagine, absolutely delicious. They
felt like the most precious thing we had put in our mouth in years.
—
We learnt our lesson. We haven't grown our own tomatoes ever since. But every time I go home to Italy
and have the chance to eat homegrown tomatoes, I certainly get my fill. I
love them simply washed and smashed, still warm from the field, on
toasted bread rubbed with garlic, scrubbed with coarse sea salt, and
moisturised with olive oil. I like them cut and seasoned with garlic,
salt, oil and fresh basil and allowed to gain flavour from the seasonings before being added to panzanella, or becoming the topping for softened
friselle.
I like them in fresh tomato sauce – cut and peeled, then left in a sieve to
lose their water for hours before they are quickly cooked in a pan with lots of garlic, oil and again, basil. You see, the same ingredients come
back over and over again, in the same order and combination. Why wouldn't they when they work so well
together?
I have a consuming passion for
tomato soup, too. It started last winter, when I tasted Jesse's tomato
soup with a side of grilled cheese sandwiches for the first time. It
continues now, in summer, with countless bowls of
gazpacho. The combination
of sweet, sun-ripened tomatoes with vinegar and fruity oil is something
that touches a soft spot of mine. I have been making
gazpacho starting from Elizabeth David's recipe found in
A Book of Mediterranean Food. The base, says David, is made of chopped tomato, olive oil, and garlic. The rest of the ingredients makes for a welcome addition, and depends on taste and availability. What I had here are tomatoes, bread, cucumber, green pepper, garlic, spring onions, and ice. I blended everything with oil, vinegar and water until smooth, and finished with more oil, and a sprinkle of fresh parsley right before serving.
