At a foodie gathering last summer somebody asked me how many tomato plants I had. When I said ‘one’ he nearly fell off his chair laughing.
by Judy Schultz
I felt insulted for a year, then I went overboard and ordered six tomato plants from Green Thumb Kids. When I went to pick them up I bought six more. A chef who grows her own from seed donated a few, and on the way home a certain greenhouse beckoned, and then a friend stopped by with another tomato plant, and so it went. Total: 23 tomato plants, plus two tomatillos.
I know some of you grow many, many more, and God knows you’re better gardeners, but a little credit here, if you will. I’ve gone from growing one dubious no-name to a whole whack of named heirlooms: White Cherry, Blue Beauty, Maori Warrior, a Tumbler and two Sungolds. Nor could I resist a Dingwall Scotty, a Brandywine, a Basinga! and a Cherokee Purple plus a couple of healthy-looking specimens simply called Manitoba, guaranteed to resist bugs and pests, withstand drought and cold, forgive human neglect and in general be the perfect slicer.
My most exotic tomato by far is an heirloom Marmande. A friend who went to Spain on vacation bought her vegetables from a romantic-looking Spaniard, and loved his Marmande tomatoes so much that she smuggled a few seeds home. Generous woman that she is, one fine day she presented me with the illegal immigrant, nine inches tall and thriving in a pot. My sturdy little Marmande promises a crop of large beefsteak tomatoes, corrugated in shape, greenish with red shoulders.
While transplanting, I noticed that each tomato variety has a slightly different smell. So, I pinched a few leaves from two different plants, scrunched them separately, and gave each one an almighty sniff. Was it my imagination that the leaves of Blue Beauty smelled like fresh peas, while Basinga! had a touch of spice? Now I’m wondering if the flavour of each tomato will reflect the scent of its leaves which, believe it or not, also have flavour.
Tomatoes are among the deadly nightshades, and the leaves, which contain the alkaloids tomatine and solanine, are mildly toxic; some people say downright poisonous. But I know a chef who adds them to his fresh tomato bisque. ‘Nobody died,’ says he. (To which some might add, ‘so far.’)
Here’s the thing: tomato leaves might give you a stomach ache but they won’t kill you. According to family legend, when I was a toddler I developed a taste for dodgy snacks, including the odd spider and the leaves of tomato plants, which may explain why my mother’s hair turned gray at 30. Fact? The average person would have to eat a whole pound of tomato leaves to feel any toxic effect. (Somebody should have told her.)
The best way to eat a tomato is plain, raw, in the garden. Add some good bread and you have a summer lunch to make a tomato-lover weep with joy.
The next-best way is a tomato sandwich, but I couldn’t resist a cruel snicker when I read an article that began, ‘Tomato sandwiches are a picnic basket’s best friend.’
No, no, and again no. A tomato sandwich that’s been sitting around long enough to go soggy, as in your average picnic basket, is awful. The flavour has a sappy acidic edge, the bread has the texture of a wet sponge. After that, whatever else could go wrong at a picnic probably will.
There’s an art to the tomato sandwich. Start with good bread, one with a bit of heft. Butter it generously and lay on some thickly sliced room-temperature tomatoes. Speck of salt, pinch of pepper. Mayonnaise by request. Eat it now, or within the next five minutes. Haste is essential.
Within the next few weeks, with any luck at all, I should have a wagonload of tomatoes, and I cannot wait. Think of it: sandwich, salad, soup, salsa, sauce, ketchup and fried green.
A British cook I know listened to my tomato saga and summed it up: ‘One cahnnot have too many tomahtos,’ she said, and she’s usually right.