A Good Tomato is Hard To Find

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that it's been several weeks since I've updated it. I was away for a little while, staying at my mother's home in Georgia. My grandmother, Dorothy Ruth Gladstone Bryant, passed away during my stay. I flew down two and a half weeks before her death, so I had the blessing of being able to spend time with her during her final days. During the first week, we were able to converse for minutes at a time, but as each day slipped into a superficial haze that began the next, so to did my grandmother's energy, and she began to sleep more and more. One day, toward the end of the second week, she said my name, and closed her eyes. She then slept deeply until she drew her final breath on a Friday at 5:21 p.m. My mother was there holding her hand. But it isn't her death that I want to share with you. She knew that it was life's continuous journey that is most important, and all of the little moments that come before that journey's end. One of them happens to be the enjoyment of a good tomato.

When she was in good health, I used to spend hours on the telephone with my grandmother, conversing on subjects that were probably of little importance to others, and perhaps of no significance in the grand scheme of the universe. We had a lot in common, you see. We could talk about trips we'd taken, or cows, or plants, forever without getting bored. But most of all, we talked about food. We agreed on the fact that these days, a good tomato is rare. She remembered eating sliced tomatoes with salt and pepper for breakfast, just picked from her mother's garden. They tasted delicious, she told me. I didn't think much of it then, because I didn't care much for tomatoes. That's because, as I have since discovered, I had never had a good one. I have purchased and eaten tomatoes for years. I always buy them vine ripened if I have to get them from a grocer, but usually I buy them at local greenmarkets and farmer's markets. Sadly, most farmers pick them before they're ripe, robbing them of nutrition and flavor. Some of the seasonal tomatos were okay, but somehow I was always disappointed, because I imagined the flavor that my grandmother used to taste. I sometimes found ripe, firm, pretty tomatoes in peak season. They were good, but not memorable. Still, I knew there had to be something better. I kept looking.

Some people might think this story is trivial. But experiencing my grandmother's death illuminated for me the knowledge that tasting a delicious tomato in peak season, one that was picked ripe and grown in rich soil that is free of chemicals....is not only not trivial, but a necessity. Life is made up of a series of moments, and in the moment that I am alive and eating a tomato, it should damn well taste good. In fact, in that moment, nothing is more important than that tomato. It's a moment you'll never get back.

As one who is passionate about local food, I naturally visited the local farmer's market while I was in town. A family friend agreed to drive me (I'm a New Yorker, and therefore do not own a car) and I didn't know what to expect, because the area isn't exactly home to a food culture. I just wanted something fresh and flavorful, and went with an open mind. There wasn't much of a selection, but I did find exquisite peaches, whose juices overflowed when I bit into them and savored the sweet nectar that only a Georgia peach can produce. I found tomatoes too, of course, but again I was disappointed.

The following week I went back, and the lady who worked at the market recognized me, and also saw that I was making my selections meticulously. She smiled, walked over and pointed to a table of beans and tomatoes that I had not noticed before. Casually, she said that was the produce picked that morning. Sold. I took my precious cargo to my grandmother's house and made a vegetable feast of fresh steamed green beans drizzled with olive oil, sliced cucumbers with a touch of balsamic vinegar, and, hesitantly, a small, red tomato. The beans and the cucumbers were wonderful. I sliced into the tomato, whose skin was a bit thicker than usual. It was blood red. I took a bite, and what happened was nothing short of divine. I had found the perfect tomato. It was a gloriously succulent specimen. The flavor was so intensely delicious that I ate the whole fruit in seconds...and sliced into another. It was a wondrous experience. My first instinct was to share it with my grandmother.

At that point in time, she was no longer eating, as her life's journey was coming to a close. Thus, she no longer desired to savor a perfect tomato. That's one of the things that happens. Because I loved her, this realization overwhelmed me and made me sad. But because she loved me, it made her happy. She already knew the joys of tasting a tomato that had come to full ripeness while basking in the rays of the sun. She passed on that desire to me, and it would live on. Quietly approaching her bedside, I told her about the tomato. She was still, but a smile slowly crept across her face. She opened her eyes in understanding and appreciation for what I had discovered. She didn't need to say anything; I already knew what she was thinking- a good tomato is surely hard to find.

photo by Richard Scott