Summer is tomato time.
I will not eat a tomato out of season. Consider the February tomato: could any food be as sad? Hard, mealy and pale, flavorless and forlorn, a tomato in winter hardly deserves the name. More than berries, more than peaches, tomatoes are the fruit I long for during the cold months.
A ripe tomato fresh from the vine bears no more resemblance to its insipid supermarket cousin than does a chicken nugget to a whole roasted, free-range bird. Its flesh bright and yielding, its fragrance as intoxicating as any flower, its juices filling your mouth with tangy sweetness, a real tomato is the stuff of fantasy – and for me, an object of worshipful devotion.
It’s worth the wait.