Heading to Memphis To Sing the Tomato Blues

{homegrown. hurley, ny}

Sometimes it's hard to let go of something. Like tomatoes. See the passing of tomato season means it's really fall. The season Greta was born in. Which means she's almost one. Not so much baby. Yes, still a baby, but no longer the tiny kind that fits in a pouch on your chest and goes with wherever you go without wiggling to get out and crawl and walk and, sigh, run ever more toward being a big girl. It means there's no more the first time she wiggled her toes in the sand or the first time she said Mama or the first tiny tomato she ever ate right off the vine.

{tomatoes irene. hurley, ny}

I got to thinking about all this tonight as I packed for Memphis, where Greta and I are headed bright and early in the morning to celebrate my dear, sweet Aunt Dorothy's 80th Birthday. I got to thinking we might need to sing a little tomato blues while we're down there. 

{food network kitchens. chelsea, ny}

In the meantime, I'm leaving you with this tomato retrospective and a few of my favorite fallish {is that a word?} tomato recipes to help you bid adieu to the summer's-over blues.

{lunch. porva, hungary}

Eight Outstanding Late-Season Tomato Recipes

The Kitchn's Three Cheese Tomato Tart

Saveur's Open-Faced Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

101 Cookbook's Spiced Tomato Gratin

Tomato Rice (Tamatar Biryani) from Food52

Sunday Supper's Roasted Eggplant, Tahini, Heirloom Tomato and Mint 

Shakshuka (Middle-Eastern Tomato and Baked Eggs) from Tasty n Sons, Portland

Roasted Tomato Soup with Herbed Croutons from Ann Gentry

Lisa Oz's Turkish Scrambled Eggs (Menemen)

{fallen. hurley, ny}

Flirting With Fall, But Still Holding Tight to Tomatoes { aka. how to ripen green tomatoes}

With any luck, we'll be eating tomatoes until Thanksgiving. It happens just about every year. We get our plants in late, and survive August on the generosity of our neighboring green-thumbs and the hand-picked treasures of our local farmers. But come September, October and even those first weeks of November, we're in business.

Depending on what climate you live in, September can be peak tomato season. And it's also just cool enough to turn back on your oven or stove. And you know what that means. Yep, BLTS.

It's also the time of the year when the garden gets kind of murky. Plants start to shrivel and suffer from lack of sun,  even with their plump green 'maters still attached. I love nothing more than a sun-ripened tomato that stays on its vine until you pluck it still warm into your hot little hand. But this year's been rough on the garden. Ever since Irene, it's been all about green tomatoes or no tomatoes at all. I let my pale orange-yellow ones ripen to a rosy blush on my windowsill, but if you've got a bunch of greenies, here's a little trick I learned from our neighbor, who at this very moment has 122 of his home-grown  tomatoes ripening on his kitchen table.

1. If your vine is going or the weather threatens of frost, pick tomatoes from them when they are pale green and yellowing, and set aside any rock hard green ones for cooking.  

2. Wrap each tomato in tissue or newspaper and lay them stem side down, where they are their toughest. Keep them in a cool, dark place until they begin to blush. Unwrap and let them finish ripening on the kitchen counter until deep red. 

You won't get quite the same texture as those ripened on the vine in the sun, but they'll beat a grocer's tomato on taste every time. Long live the late-season BLT.

The Age of Innocence

l.i.c., new york

Down in Maryland, where I was last Sunday, there were still tomatoes on the vine. Here in New York, the tomatoes are long gone, and with them the golden days that colored them red and warm like the sun. There are a few, here and there, enough to slice over a sandwich, but the last real final harvest happened several weeks ago.

It was a quiet September night, before the clock turned, before our neighbors Hameeda and Fahmeda went back to school and before they moved to the apartment upstairs, where we can no longer count on seeing them waiting for us on the sidewalk when we arrive at home.

Earlier that week, András and I were taking the kayak down the block to Two Coves beach for the last spin of the summer. The 8-foot bright-orange boat must have drawn some attention, because just as we passed their house, Hameeda and both of her brothers flew to the front door. Hearing the commotion, their father came out, followed by Fahmeda who seemed to glide toward us, her pretty head covered with a veil.

The girls ran to me, and I gathered them in my arms.

“What’s this?” I asked, touching the cloth framing Fahmeda's face. “Does this mean you’ve had a birthday?”

Fahmeda is Bengali, and Muslim, and what little I do know about the Muslim faith told me this new cloth marked a coming of age.

“It’s Wednesday,” Fahmeada said.

We three walked together toward the water, Hameeda’s little hand in mine, trailing András, the kyack, the boys and their father down to the water.

The kids and I lapped in the current and waded to our kneecaps while András practiced eskimo rolls. I held Hameeda out of the water when it came too high, and we all soaked in what was sure to be the last sunset of summer.

“So how old will you be?” I asked Fahmeda, picking the conversation back up.

“Eleven.” She said.

“Eleven, that’s a great age!” I said. “Will you have a party?”

“We’ll have a dinner. Upstairs, in the new house.” She said.

Secretly, I hoped to be invited to that birthday dinner. I imagined myself sitting at the table with the children and András, our arms swinging up in down in a prayer before we devoured a table lined with dishes, flavors and spices from Bangledesh. I wondered, if in Bengali custom, it would be impolite to invite myself to dinner.

That night when we came back home, I asked their mother if she thought Fahmeda would like a cake.

“No, no, you don’t need to make something,” her mother said.

“We should cook together,” I said, changing the subject. Fahmeda’s mother is my age, and I fancied us becoming friends, rolling Parothha bread and seasoning vegetable stews with cumin, fennel, fenugreek, and black mustard. “I would like to learn from you. We can go to the garden. We can harvest and bring back vegetables and cook together.”

She laughed, warmly, but as if to change the subject. She has five mouths to feed and likely no time to give lessons.

That Wednesday night, I came home from work to find Fahmeda sticking her head out of the second floor window.

“Happy Birthday!” I called up. “Come down, I have something for you!”

“You remembered!” She tucked her head back in, ran down the stairs to greet me. Hameeda followed.

“Come, let’s go to the garden,” I said, handing her a bushy lemon verbena plant. “I brought you this to plant in honor of your birthday.”

“What is it?” She asked.

“Lemon Verbena. Smell.”

She enhaled. Hameeda imitated her.

“It’s a very lovely herb, for a very lovely girl.”

In the garden, we talked about every vegetable, and snacked on green beans and lettuces. Fahmeda and I dug a deep hole, planted the lemon verbena and patted the soil around it. Then she watered, patiently, suddenly looking more like a woman than a girl, the bright colors of the fabrics surrounding her popping off the graying sky. The sun went down far too fast that night.

Hameeda danced around the garden, touching every plant. She picked all the tomatoes and lined them up in neat rows along the path, then tromped all over them as she watered, making the best of her four-year-old motor skills and splaying water on anything in her path. Fahmeada and I smiled at each other, grown-up girls, enjoying Hameeda’s playful spirit among us.

After dark, I walked the girls to meet their family at the Mosque, despite Fahmeda’s insistence that they’d be okay on their own. I wasn’t ready for her to be that grown up, so she humored me as I guided them the two blocks, then headed home with the crushed tomatoes to make mashed buschetta with aged gouda for András. We drank rose, and toasted to our favorite neighbors, wondering how even when our little shoe box studio gets a little tight, we could ever move away from them.

Tomato Troubles

l.i.c., ny

Today I caught up on the phone with my old friend Carrie who I hadn't talked to in years. Facebook made sure that we were up to date on the basics like where we lived, what we did for a living and how we had changed in the last five years, so we launched right into the gritty details.

"How do you create recipes for a living and not weigh 300 pounds?" she asked.

"I’m married to a man who peddles about 300 miles a week, which is his way of taking it easy after giving up ultra distance marathons and iron mans.” I explained. “It sort of rubs off.”

"What a coincidence, that's how I spend my time." She said. I had missed her sense of humor.

"So, he makes you work out?"

"Sort of. He encourages it."

András is a big believer in the mental benefits of a hard, physical workout, like a stress-relieving, mind-clearing, pore unclogging run. I find yoga and gardening to be exhilarating.

Recently, in National Geographic Adventure, I read an article about the secrets of long life written by a former long-distance cyclist {he’s ridden 15,5000 miles at a time} who spent the last few years traveling to Sardinia, Okinawa, Costa Rica and Loma Linda to study some of the worlds healthiest humans. When asked what kinds of activities tack on years, he said:

One of the greatest activities is growing a garden…it requires physical activity to till the land, weed, water, harvest, fertilize. It’s there as a constant reminder to do a little bit of regular activity. And you emerge with organic vegetables.

That was enough to convince me I was on the right track. But then there is the annoying detail that skinny jeans are still in style, so occasionally I partake in a vigorous run myself.

Other times, I just put on my running clothes, which makes me feel fit and fabulous, and has the added benefit of convincing András that I’m on board.

I explained this philosophy to Carrie.

"I love how you're starting you relationship on based on honesty. That’s great.” She said.

“Oh, I never actually lie,” I explained.

Take last night for example. I put on my running gear with the full intention of going out for a good sweat fest. On the way, I decided I'd just swing by the garden first and check on the tomatoes, since you really can't go a day in August without one ripening. And if you don’t get a tomato when it’s ripe, the birds or the bugs or the neighborhood thug just might get to it first. When I got there, to my surprise there wasn't just one tomato ready, there were three beefsteak tomatoes, plus a handful of sun golds and five tiny red cherry tomatoes. I loaded them up in the bag I'd brought the compost in, and tried to imagine how the poor tomatoes would feel about bouncing about in that little bag while I pounded the pavement in circles just so I could fit into some ridiculous fashion trend.

I explained this to her.

“One can’t run with tomatoes,” I said.

"Obviously, I totally get your logic." She said. I love a friend who understands me.

What one can do is take those tomatoes straight home and slice them up thinly, sprinkle them with sea salt and let them sit aside while they toast a few slices hearty 7-grain bread in a skillet with a little butter or olive oil. Then, they might want to quickly sweat the sweet purple scallions they got at the farmer's market in a little more olive oil, while they fry a fresh organic egg in another pan nearby. Then one might want to layer all of this on the toasted bread, and set it out on the table just in time to welcome their friend or roommate or husband or personal trainer home.

Then, it's likely the topic of a workout won't even come up at all. So, as you see, there is no lying involved. Just a good old-fashioned, open-faced fried egg sandwich eating.