Red Hot

I assume we have an understanding. You all know that  I have what could be described as a tomato fetish.  I don’t like to go more than a couple of days – and I mean only two – without ingesting something tomato-y.  So, Summertime in the South means absolute breathless anticipation of those juicy, sun-warmed ripe, ugly beasts that actually taste like a tomato, instead of those strange, flavorless,  uniform globes in  the grocery store the other 9 months of the year.

The perfect tomato is lumpy, imperfect, warm, eaten just sliced.   Sometimes I will enjoy a purist tomato-sandwich, but I prefer my Summer, vine-ripened homely beauties warm, sliced, and, if not plain on their own, coupled with some basil and aged-balsamic.  That is perfection for me.   I do not want my tomatoes jazzed up.  Keep it simple.

So, imagine my delight and sheer giddiness when I learned of a dinner with tomatoes at every course.  What other heaven is there?


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