Tomato Pie
I’m thinking about tomatoes. It’s the season. The petunias are leggy, and the pansies from last winter are spent. But not the tomatoes; like ripe blackberries, this is their time.
I have one tortured tomato plant. A gift from my friend, Linda, who surely had no idea of the hardship it would endure. When she handed me the plant in the starter pot, the plant was thriving, bright green, sturdy, and obviously happy. I haven’t killed it, but I have made its life miserable, torturing and mistreating it while its tiny leaves curl at the edges and tinge with gray, like cigarette ash.
Let me just say, I love tomatoes. Not the wintertime imports, those dull, flavorless fruits, that in no way resemble a real tomato. I love the ones plucked off the vine, fat, juicy, and bursting with flavor.
Today, I made a tomato pie with fruits from the Farmer’s Market. The stands overflowed with the dark richness of blueberries, bright tomatoes, and flowers of every color imaginable.
I can’t believe I spent a whole year baking every day without ever making a tomato one. The combination of juicy tomatoes, layered with cheese, and a touch of crunch from a sprinkle of cornmeal. Delicious.
But back to the mistreated plant. It’s a cherry tomato, so less effort is needed to produce. Still, I only have two marble-sized tomatoes. Yesterday, I plucked them off the skinny vine, so weak that they barely resisted their departure from the desperate plant. Maybe they were thankful for the release from the obligation to grow. I popped them in my mouth. They had flavor, yes, but the struggle to survive made their skins tough as hide.
Maybe that’s all any of us can do—hang on, ripen as best we can, and hope someone notices our effort. Even if our skin gets a little tough along the way.
