A pile of years ago, I stood in a hallway with Dan Dykstra at Calvin College. I was immensely smitten with him and hung on virtually every word he said.
"I never eat tomatoes until summer," he said. Actually he pontificated. Dan had an entire argument set against eating tomatoes that were stripped from maturing, labeled as "tomatoes" (since you couldn't tell by their peachy-pink color) and sold to unsuspecting, or uncaring, institutions.
He gave me this monologue as we stood in front of the cafeteria. I remember.
I remember because every March when I plan my garden, I make sure to include at least 6 tomato plants in order to satisfy his Calvin College speech to me. And because I love to see his eyes get big when we cut into a really red-ripe Big Beef.
Each year I make selections for my garden in the late winter. I buy seeds and map out how I want to arrange them. I don't create the layout because I am organized. The layout is necessary because I need to make sure that at least 6 tomatoes plants have room. I also do it because it helps me press through the cold, unfeeling, un-tomato months.
At the first sign of spring, I go to my local home improvement store and scan it for plants. "They're not here, yet, ma'am...," they'll explain, "Next week." I continue to drop in to the store which smells of potting soil and mulch samples, anxious for the plants to arrive.
Almost overnight an army of plants appear in the store. They're small, green, scrappy and uninspiring. It takes a bit of hope to see how such a fledgling plant will overcome its weed-like appearance and become a wonderful, productive vegetation. I read the plastic informational stakes they stick in each plant. Each year I hope for one that will produce tomatoes in June, but no such luck. Slow, steady growth is required.
The yellow flowers transform into pale green orbs which begin to blush before they turn fiery red.
Picking a tomato off the plant is immensely satisfying. When a ripe tomato catches my eye, I slide my hand under its heavy weight. I pull slightly to see if it is ready to yield. I twist it gently and feel its warmth fall into my palm. I bring it inside to the kitchen and set it on the sill of my window.
I don't like cold tomatoes. Warm tomatoes are juicier and richer.
When you eat a tomato-laden sandwich, there are certain unsaid rules. First, the moment is somewhat holy because these harvests from summer are so special. Talking isn't necessary.
Second, if you do try to talk while eating a sandwich, it won't be pretty. You can't hide the juices when you eat them. They soak in the bread of crusty sandwiches, they drip pale coral colored juice down your fingers. If you chomp into them properly, there is no room for Emily Post; manners are futile in this situation.
In fact, one might say that if a person invites you to eat a summer-ripe tomato sandwich with them, they must feel awfully comfortable with you. It's not a "first date" meal, as Dan would say. Other food that fall in the "non-first-date-meal" category are baby back ribs, s'mores and candy apples.
This afternoon, Dan and I came home from church and slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our girls. Our daughters don't share our affinity for tomatoes, so no tomato sandwiches for them.
We toasted some crusty bread. We don't need to talk when we make these sandwiches. Twelve years of marriage does that to a couple.
We cut the tomatoes and Dan put coarse cracked pepper on them. He assembled the sandwiches and waited outside on our patio with the food. We eat together. To be honest, however, Dan has already made a sandwich a few minutes earlier, swallowed it whole, probably felt guilty (or hungry) and made another.
Even so, he waited.
We ate. We relished in summer. We sat back, satisfied, knowing that summer tomatoes are still coming.
