I’ve moved upward and onward into a sparkly new house … and , sadly, have not had a lot of time make my oven hot (not a euphemism).
I have been spending a lot of time in my own head for the last few weeks (months) – and, well, I know that there are those of you who would really like to spend some time in my, uh, head too, so, come, on. Take my hand.
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?