September is upon us and I find myself starting to grasp frantically at the last precious minutes of the summer garden. Suddenly, I am not as complacent about whether or not I weeded the vegetable beds this week. I am far more interested than I was last month in watering the flower border; just so something, anything, will stay green well into October. I have new found motivation to dig out the floating row covers and protect the new brassica crops from white fluttering moths. I immediately pull out the groundhog trap when the tell tale signs of varmint vulargis greet me, lest he get one beloved bean, one darling pepper. And sadly…perhaps most importantly…I am becoming aware of the fact that soon, too soon, there will not be a fresh, vine ripened tomato to be had north of Florida, much less the Mason Dixon line.
A moment of silence please.
Perhaps you find this amusing. If you have planted and tended and watered and worried, then at this moment your vines are laden, your canning jars are at the ready, your recipe books are out. You have made tomato sauce, tomato casserole, tomato salad, and yes, even tomato pie. There is no end to the piles of red, juicy fruits that threaten to pervade each and every dinner whether raw or cooked, diced, chopped or fricasseed. Your hands are raw from processing endless pounds of fruit, your kitchen smells like a Heinz factory and if you have to run out to buy one more pack of jar lids or quart size freezer bags, you may just lie down and die. But please, put down the knife for a moment, stop peeling those Better Boys or Romas or Celebrities or Valencias – close your eyes and travel with me to the first week of March in the year ahead.
Life is pretty grim here. It’s bitter cold. Perhaps we’ve had a warm spell, just to make the cold that much more unbearable. We can’t remember what the trees look like with leaves anymore, it’s been far too long. The fuel tank is almost empty and our spouse thinks that a house temperature of 68˚ is a luxury only fit for kings. The last time we came into contact with a fresh bowl of salsa was at the beach at the end of September, and we can almost taste the memory; chunky, richly flavored juices running down our chins and onto our tee-shirts. The recollection threatens to overwhelm us and in a wild moment of abandon we stop dicing the turnips for tonight’s winter stew and run out to the market to buy some tomatoes and a jalapeno or two. Yet there, in the unforgiving florescent light, our hopes are dashed, our dreams cruelly destroyed. Front and center of the produce aisle, a tightly stacked pyramid of hard pink objects greet us, and we must look down at the sign to confirm that they are indeed tomatoes and not a new variety of anemic pomegranate. We pick one up, grimace at the waxy texture and squeeze it reticently. It does not yield. Life and the process of ripening are extinguished in this sad little creature and probably have been for weeks. The label says “Chile” or “Argentina” or “New Zealand” or “Anywhere But Here”; and we put it down sorrowfully and head for the freezer section. Maybe a half gallon of Neopolitan will take away the pain.
Now, back to September. It’s still warm. Evenings are luscious, only hinting at a chill in the air. The days are shorter and the mums are starting to line the garden center shelves. Winter squash is ripening, soon summer will be a far off memory. Now open your eyes. Look at your tomatoes. Embrace your tomatoes. Kiss your tomatoes. Roast your tomatoes and freeze your tomatoes and enjoy your tomatoes. No other fruit or vegetable is grown with such fervor in gardens all over the United States – and for good reason.
The tomato is the anchor of the summer garden – and there is always another variety to explore, another growing method to try. Red mulch, black mulch, covered, uncovered, staked, caged or sprawling – the possibilities are endless. This year a friend had wonderful success with pinching out lower foliage as it yellowed. His tomato plants now put mine to shame. They are tall and green and lovely and don’t need to make excuses for their ragged underpinnings. I shall do the same next year and steadfastly maintain that it was my idea in the first place. Fortunately, I can still hold my head high right now; for in terms of fruit, my Romas have exceeded expectations, and the canner has been pulled out more times than my pruning shears. For ease of canning, you surely can’t beat a tomato.
Yet the beauty of the tomato is that it is not just about overwhelming bounty, country kitchens and Normal Rockwell prints. One prized plant can domesticate the most hardened urbanite, impressing friends and inspiring impromptu dinner parties. Toss those city toms into a roasting pan, grind a little sea salt and drizzle a little olive oil – perhaps tear a basil leaf or two or smash a garlic clove if you are feeling adventurous. Whiz it all up in that high-priced stainless steel food processor and voilá, instant homemade sauce, no preservatives, transfats, high fructose corn syrup nor any of those other things at which we must derisively sneer these days. Just basic garden goodness – even if your garden is a balcony on the 24th floor and your gardening gloves match your shoes.
So forgive me if I gush. Forgive me if I make light of the sixty-seven pounds of To Do List currently sitting on your countertop. But tomatoes are summer’s gift to the gardener – and they’re almost over. Enjoy them while you still can.
