2-17-18 TOMATO

Ah, February in Utah, you have arrived in all your frozen splendor, all wintry and... wintry. It's great up in the mountains if you like snow sports, but down here in the valley it has been a brownish kind of winter, and its feeling sort of blah. So I cook.

February is just so far, far away from August. Fortunately for us in the era of modern transportation, it is harvest time in the southern hemisphere, which means the produce we get in our grocery stores here in the northern hemisphere is starting to get some flavor again. Today I found Roma tomatoes on sale for 59 cents a pound at the 5 Hour Store in Salt Lake. The store isn't really called the 5 Hour Store, but that's a story for another time. This is about tomatoes.

To me, the summer is at it's holiest peak when I can go out to the grow boxes at the end of our driveway and pick a nice ripe tomato fresh from the vine, hold it up to my nose and inhale the freshness, then walk straight into the kitchen, slice it up in inch thick circles, all wet and rosy, then lay one and a half slices between two pieces of Grandma Sycamore white bread which has been slathered with Miracle Whip. Two twists of the pepper and salt mills before the top piece is added. Its not right for me if it isn't sliced in half with a serrated knife, so that I can see the heavenly layering, like Mother Nature's wedding cake. 

I love tomatoes.

I have a big pot of water coming to a boil on the stove right now, and soon I will blanch, peel and crush those Roma's I bought this afternoon. In my biggest 5 gallon pot I will heat some olive oil, add some grated carrots, crushed fresh garlic, and a teaspoon of sugar, saute for a bit, then add tomato paste and all those crushed tomatoes, with a big old fistful of sweet basil and some sea salt. It will simmer all day tomorrow, so that by tomorrow night I can make us up a nice big pan of manicotti for Sunday dinner.

I love tomatoes.

But my life-long best friend hates them. I've known and loved Libby since the day she was born. We share just about everything. Heck, when we were kids we even shared bubble gum, and I'm not talking about fresh wrapped pieces. I'm talkin' about ABC gum (already been chewed). Yeah, we are that close. (We don't do that any more.)We have an old home movie of me feeding her mushed up baby food carrots when we were little. I am 15 months older than Libby, who is also my sister. One bite for her, then two bites for me, then one for her and two for me. You can guess which of us is more selfless. We like mostly the same stuff, except that Libby hates tomatoes.

I remember with a pang of compassion the evening on Old Clairton Road when we were kids. Dinner that night was stewed tomatoes, and Libby had to sit there at the kitchen table until she had eaten hers. Ann Marie, George and I had to do the dishes, and George accused her of faking it to get out of drying. But Ann Marie and I knew better, Ann Marie was my other best friend. She is 18 months older than me. I remember feeling so sad, standing there at the kitchen sink, my dishtowel soggy as I dried the last dish, looking over at Libby, her head drooped sorrowfully over the bowl in front of her, her hand gripping a spoon, and big crocodile tears dropping onto that big, soft yucky orb floating in watery tomato juice, seeds floating around it. She just could not do it. She wanted to, but she just could not do it. I wished I could run over and just slurp it up for her, even though I myself didn't really care for tomatoes of the stewed variety. I can't even remember how the evening ended. For all I know I woke up the next morning and she was still sitting there, a cold, withered glob of agony still there in front of her.

Libby is grown up now. She grows tomatoes in her garden. Not for her, mind you. She still does not care for them. No one can make her eat them now. But she grows them for the people she loves. If fate ever finds us in a situation where life or death hangs on Libby's ability to consume a tomato of any sort, besides one squeezed into tomato sauce, I will stand beside my little sister and defend her right to not eat them! I will raise my serrated knife and sound my barbaric yop and consume any tomato placed before her. All for love. I'm selfless that way.