Tomato How To's

How to grow tomatoes:

Buy them*.
Plant them.

Ignore them.

Harvest them by the bushel.

Done it twice now.  So I'm kind of an authority.

Note:  Does not work for any other living thing.  Especially basil plants and those cute little flower pots from Trader Joe's.  For them, Sharon = Death.

How to eat tomatoes:

Straight up is good.  Really good.

Or, you can make the big ones into tomato jam.

Recipe from Fine Cooking, modified not at all.

The jam is fresh and sweet and tart, a little spicy, and perfectly tomato-y.  Don't be tempted to add onions or garlic or herbs or fancy vinegar.  Let it be, and it'll taste exactly like summer. Amazing on burgers.  Like, ridiculous.  

You might attempt Gazpacho.  I did.

This recipe, a riff on one from Alton Brown, needs more work.  The flavors were spot on, but the texture was a little too much like salsa.  I should have followed along with this great video, from Judy of Two Broads Abroad, or tried making this recipe from Serious Eats.  Next summer!

With full confidence, I can recommend that you make the baby ones into warm tomato vinaigrette.

Tangy, bright and wonderful, I made this last year and it's now in permanent rotation.  The very simple recipe is over at Bon Appetit. Ladle it over roasted potatoes, grilled fish, a steak, or a frittata at breakfast.  Or be like me and slather it on top of fresh focaccia bread.

I insist you try this salad/salsa number with feta cheese and mint. (Recipe follows)

Despite the onset of September, there's no sign of summer slowing down around here. Instead, it seems to be getting hotter, if such a thing is possible. That means there are still a few juicy, ripe tomatoes to be had**.

Find them.
Eat them.
Enjoy!


Don't forget, you can always check out the Recipe Box for even more tomato ideas.

Harvest Day

We picked these from our backyard.

I had this for lunch.

And made this for later.  For when I want to remember exactly what today tasted like.

Roasted Summer Tomato Sauce

Based on a recipe from Mark Peel & Nancy Silverton Cook at Home, a must-have cookbook which seems to be out of print at the moment.

2 lbs. or so ripe summer tomatoes
3 Tbs. olive oil
2 tsp. finely minced garlic
1 Tbs. fresh rosemary
1 Tbs. fresh thyme
1 Tbs. sugar
1/2 tsp. coarse salt
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 6oz. can tomato paste
2-3 tsp. brown sugar, to taste

Pre heat oven to 300.  Cut tomatoes in half, and remove stems. Combine olive oil, garlic, herbs, sugar, salt and pepper in a mixing bowl.

Add tomatoes and stir gently to coat completely.

Place tomatoes, cut side down, on a shallow baking sheet.

Roast for 35-45 minutes, until tops have shriveled and bottoms are slightly caramelized.   Cool.

At this point, you can just serve these as a side dish, put them on toast with a smear of pesto sauce, chop and add to hot pasta, put on pizza, eat them...the list goes on.   But at least once, I recommend you keep going.

Place tomatoes into the bowl of a food processor and puree for several minutes until smooth.    Take a taste.   It will be pretty darn delicious, but wait!  There's more.

Get out a medium pot.  Add the tomato puree, the tomato paste, and a spoonful or two of brown sugar.  Heat over medium low heat for 10-15 minutes.   Now taste it again.   I told you, I told you, I told you!  SO GOOD!!!

When it's just right, remove from heat.  Strain the sauce to remove any seeds, herb bits and skin that remains.  

Store, covered, in the fridge for a week or in the freezer until the tomato plants have all died and gone away.   Use as a base for pizza or pasta. Stir into risotto, add to a soup, spread it on bread...you name it, you've now got summer in a spoon anytime you want.  

Onion variation:   Add one sweet onion, peeled and cut into wedges, to the olive oil mixture with the tomatoes.    This version is DELISH!

Everything's better as butter

When you own a house in LA, chances are it comes with fruit trees.   We've got lemons, oranges, and, due to my margarita/gin & tonic/mojito habit, a newly planted lime tree at our place.   We also have a peach tree.  The first year we lived here, the peach tree didn't do much.    Last year, as June rolled around, we noticed the branches were sprouting lots of little fuzzy nuggets.   Each week, they grew a little bigger, a little rosier, and my mind began imagining the cobblers, the pies, the slices with cinnamon for breakfast.   If you bake...heck, if you eat, you know that a ripe, fresh peach is like nature's ultimate foodie gift.

Pretty soon, I felt like the wicked witch in the Hansel and Gretel story.  The branches were chock full, almost mockingly loaded down.  Every day I went out to the yard, ready for my feast, and every day those peaches were hard as rocks.   I gritted my teeth and waited.   It had to be soon.

I think we might have gone away for the weekend.  Or maybe it did happen overnight.  All I know is I came out one morning and every single peach on that tree was gone.  It had been stripped bare.   Frantic, I searched under every leaf, on every branch of that now completely green tree.  Nothing!

Seething, I made a casual remark to the gardening crew.   Something along the lines of, "Did you happen to harvest several bushels of peaches for me last time you were here?"   They had not.

It was the f***ing squirrels.   They had some kind of inherent "ripeness radar" in those cute little heads of theirs, and it had gone off while I was asleep at the switch.   The fluffy-tailed thieves put the word out and had a big old peach eating hoe down.  They invited the whole family, their long lost cousins, and the guys down the block, too.   I'm sure it was the equivalent of a squirrel tweeting: "open season @#sharon's peach tree 1 nite only pass it on."   Damn them!

So you can imagine how I greeted the appearance of the precious fuzzy nuggets this year.   No way those furry little losers were going near my peaches.  I patrolled the perimeter.   Consulted experts*.   Made obscene, threatening gestures when one of those sneaky buggers crossed my path.  This was war.   And I was going to win.  

Saturday came.   I began my rounds.   The peaches were gorgeous.   The tree was almost groaning under their weight, leaning heavily on the support stakes we'd put up.    Just the sight of all that bounty made my heart beat faster. 

Then I heard it.   A scamper.  Rustling in the branches to my left.   The thud of hastily dropped fruit hitting the earth.   Quick as a wink four bushy tails flew off the tree and onto the nearby fence, where the advance raiding party proceeded to turn and chatter their tiny teeth at me. 

"GET AWAY FROM MY PEACHES YOU, YOU, YOU...NUT JOBS!!!"  I yelled, waving my arms and stamping my feet like a crazy person.   From inside the house, my husband and children, at first alarmed and then hysterical with laughter, began doing imitation "Mommy hates the squirrels" dance moves.

My method might be comical**, but it was effective.  I was alone with the tree.  I reached up, and sure enough, the nearest peach was warm from the sun, perfectly ripe and ready for the picking.  It dropped easily into my hand.   The skin was soft, the color a brilliant blend of red and pink and orange.    I brushed it off gently, closed my eyes and opened my mouth to take a bite of my luscious, marvelous prize.

Yech! Blah! Ugh! Crap!  It was AWFUL!!!  I couldn't spit the stuff out fast enough.  Utterly flavorless, mushy white flesh, oozing horrid juice all over the place.  Worse still, now there was a bitter aftertaste, without the wonderful rich tart-sweet tang I'd been fantasizing about all summer.    This was an absolutely horrible, horrible peach.  I threw it down in disgust, and picked up another one.   Ew!  This was even worse than the first one.    This stupid tree produced the worst excuse for peaches I'd ever eaten in my life!

More chattering from up on the fence.   These little jerks were clearly laughing at me, too***! Well, I would show them!   No matter how vile this fruit was, it was still my fruit.   I proceeded to pick a huge bucket of the things, motivated by pure, venomous, malevolent spite****.

My husband:  Honey, why is there a pile of bad peaches on the counter in the kitchen?
Me: Because I'm going to make something with them. 
My husband:  Uh huh.  What can you make out of bad peaches?
Me:  Alcohol or butter.   I'm online trying to decide which way to go with this batch.
My husband:  OK, well, you're the expert.
Me:  I'm going to go with butter.  It's a shame to waste good vodka on these things.
My husband:  I couldn't agree more.

I peel the peaches.  I slice the peaches.  I crush the peaches with a potato masher.  It looks like someone threw up in the bowl.

My son:  Mom, it looks like someone threw up in there.   You know that, right?
Me:  It'll be fine, trust me.
My son:  I'm just saying!

I get out the food processor.   I put the slimy, mashed up bad peaches in and puree them into a smooth, barf-colored liquid. 

My daughter:  Mom, what is that?  It looks like barf.
Me:  It's peach butter.  Just not yet.
My daughter:  Seems more like peach vomit to me.

I add lemon juice, lemon zest, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, apricot nectar, almond extract and brown sugar.   Now it looks like dirt is getting mixed into the vomit.    No one bothers speaking to me about this.   I load the whole mess into the crock pot, set it on high, and walk away.

My husband, a few hours later:  What smells good? Is it the peach vomit?
Me:  Yes, but it's not peach vomit.  It's peach butter.

My son, a few hours after that:   Hey! The peach vomit looks less like fresh puke now.   The color is more like old puke.
Me:  It's peach butter.  And the correct phrase for that color is golden brown.
My son:  Call it what you want, Mom.  It's still not even close to appetizing.  You know that, right?

My daughter, several hours later:  Hey, Mom! Can I stir the peach vomit this time?  Seems like it's almost ready!
Me:  [Sigh] Yeah, go ahead.

After leaving it to cook down through the night, in the morning I have a crock pot full of thick, deep orange, spicy-tangy-sweet, absolutely delicious peach butter.     I pull out my jars, fill them to the brim, and with a satisfying twist of the lid, my victory....over the rascally varmints, over that skanky tease of a tree, is sealed.

Later that day I go out to the yard.   I stand on the lawn and speak loudly and clearly:

"OPEN SEASON @SHARON'S PEACH TREE FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER.  PASS IT ON!"

A symbolic reenactment of the peach tree truce.  Thank you to my dog for the loan of his squeaky squirrel.  None of the ones in the yard would pose for me.

* The experts say pie tins. Hang pie tins.
** OK, definitely comical.
*** The family was now cracking up over the many faces of horror and revulsion I was making along with with my solo performance piece, "Random furious hurling and spitting."
**** I now have an intensely personal understanding of the Bill Murray character's motivation in Caddyshack.

Our first harvest

Tomato, chives, and flat leaf parsley from the garden. I can now reasonably claim to my daughter that she doesn't have to go away next year, since we have a farm right here.

No way she'll buy that, but I had to try. If anyone wants to drop off a chicken coop, a baby goat and some kittens, I may have a better shot.