My kid brothers and I spent more than a decade of summers at the Jersey shore. We piled into the orange Pinto hatchback, along with Mumford the dog, who almost always got carsick in the back seat. We rolled the windows all the way down with the wind as our air conditioner. Mom took the longest way possible to avoid driving on the expressway. Sixty-five miles felt like sixty-five million.
Our first stop after the bridge was the McDonald’s on Black Horse Pike for a burger and fries but also to walk Mumford, maybe wipe up her puke.
Before we crossed the bay and the salt air filled our noses, Mom pulled off the side of the road for produce. Plums for the beach, tomatoes for sandwiches.
We were a sandwich-eating family. Cold cuts from the Acme for school lunches, three-inch-high deli sandwiches and a dill pickle from Koch’s as a special treat. But really anything — even a coupla store-bought oatmeal raisin cookies (I’m looking at you, kid brother) — could go in between two pieces of bread at our house.
Mom came from the one slice meat, one slice cheese camp. Dad piled it on. Everybody but me slathered on the mayo. I’d rather die.
We didn’t know nothing about caprese salad. In fact, the only cheese our tomatoes sidled up to was sliced American that melted like plastic atop charcoal-fired burgers. And salad, well that was iceberg lettuce with dressing from the refrigerator door.
We sliced those Jersey tomatoes (‘tahmayduhs’ in Philly speak) for BLTs and just-tomato sandwiches. Toast for everyone, unless you were the joker who enjoyed the squish of sliced white bread in a plastic bag. Silence please while we savor the indescribable, while we give thanks for this moment that comes just once a year.
Four decades later, I tried growing tomatoes in Seattle. They laughed at me — the tomatoes, not the neighbors. This is not New Jersey, young lady.
When we got to Lancaster, I surveyed the weed-filled yard of our rental and saw a possible future in tomatoes. For the first two seasons, I dabbled in cherry tomatoes and grew small heirlooms from seed with mixed results.
This year, I went big. And yes, sometimes bigger is better.
I planted my Oxheart starts (Jerusalem Red, Orange and Hungarian, to be exact) on a new moon in May, crossed my fingers for a good haul. Mother Nature was kind. The tomatoes are gutsy like Koko Taylor’s Wang Dang Doodle on a Sunday morning. Big, fat, juicy, daring me to eat the whole thing. And I do, almost every day, until Mother Nature puts on the brakes.
Here’s to eating in the moment. The produce waits for no one.
Tahmayduh Sandwiches
Holy catfish! Was sitting in the car with Monica with all the windows down listening to a live blues band at Elmwood Park in Roanoke; I noticed a train going by across the way and commented: “there’s a train …
Just shake it boxcar joe, tell everybody you know.” Then went back to ready my favorite food writer’s most recent homage to the mighty madder. Wouldn’t you know Koko comes ballin’ into the marbled rye! Figures— our hearts still united.