Sliced Tomatoes

A cut tomato, juices gathering and glistening in the light from the kitchen window.

I see tomatoes and immediately smell sweet, slightly pungent basil.

Ah tomatoes… red, ripe, juicy.

Tomatoes play an important part in the Italian American culture. There is the Sunday pasta sauce ,of course, a ritual in itself. But ask any child of immigrant Italian parents-there is always a garden. Unreasonable numbers of plants crowded into any tillable corner of soil. Planting the garden was a family event. Tending the growing plants, staking the gangly seedlings, pinching off the suckers, the daily vigil for new flowers and the promise of bulging green orbs; it was all a clan affair.

When we lived in the Bronx, we had no tillable land. But my dad owned a piece of property in New Jersey with a friend, and there were acres to plant.

At harvest time, every available body was called in. Relatives and friends all gathered to pick and share in the harvest. And what does one do with all those tomatoes? Make sauce of course! Or at the least, preserve in jars what would be the makings of future sauce.

It was a process involving steaming pots of boiling water on the hottest of summer days. Eyes stinging from sweat, my job was to carry boxes and pans full of tomatoes up flights of stairs. I would enter the kitchen sauna, drop off my load and hurry back out into the relative cool of the backyard. There, my grandfather, who was directing the dancers in the tomato ballet, would choreograph the next steps. You might be assigned to crank the huge food mill or slice tomatoes from the unending buckets, baskets and crates.

These days, I paint the tomato in a still life. And when I'm done, a bit of basil, some oil and a little salt is all the garnish needed.  I hope this brings a taste of summer to your winter day!

What are your tomato memories? Let me know in the comments below!