Sniffing the stem of a vine-ripened tomato the other day immediately made me think of my grandmother. It’s the dead of winter so of course my mostly-ripened tomato came from a greenhouse in Canada and, sadly, the scent was on the thin side of the olfactory spectrum (as was the color and taste) -- but that smell of the stem was enough to take me back to Grandma’s house. Technically, I should say it took me back to grandma’s garden. Well, technically, I should say it took me back to grandma’s row of tomato plants. I’m sure at some point she had a full garden but by the time I came along all she really cared about were her plump ruby red ‘mayters come August.
I love tomatoes – if I don’t have a sufficient amount of tomatoes every day, I feel like something is missing in my life, kind of like if I didn’t brush my teeth, but less smelly. There have been times when the pint of tomatoes I bought at the grocery store didn’t survive the short trip home to my apartment. They seem like a vegetable but are really a fruit. I still don’t get that really, even though my trusty food expert just informed me that tomatoes are a part of the citrus family. (“Look at the pit, the seeds,” he said.) That said, my grandmother’s tomatoes were sweet enough to be considered a fruit.
Manning* grew up during the depression in the poorest part of rural Virginia. I assume that’s part of the reason why she wasn’t particularly keen to make or eat salads. So in yet another ironic twist, her delicious tomatoes were rarely cut fresh as a side salad during summertime suppers. Actually, the majority of those juicy fruits found their way into a Mason jar, in theory to be consumed during the barren months of December, January or February. In reality, most of the canned fruits found their way to the dumpster after sitting on Grandma’s shelf for a couple decades too long.
Thankfully, that isn’t the memory that made its lasting impression on my heart’s affinity for the summer fruit-vegetable. No, what did it were the hundreds of thousands of tomato sandwiches (I'm sure that's not an exaggeration) I consumed, until high school graduation catapaulted me out of the Virginia countryside and into the concrete-heavy city. I swore then, and if I didn’t know any better now, I would still swear that I could live off of those mouth-watering tomato sandwiches. White bread (yes, usually Wonderbread, unless something else was on sale), spread with full fat mayonnaise (unless she used the equivalent “salad dressing,” generic store brand, not ever Miracle Whip), two or three slices of tomato (depending on how big the produce), topped with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. One of those sandwiches was never enough. I don’t remember the record number I had in a single sitting but it was probably enough to send most tummies to the sickbed.
Grandma was always proud of her tomatoes and her tomato sandwiches and everyone in the family was happy to feed that pride with endless "oos" and "ahhs" over her harvest. I know I would stoke her ego on purpose and make a bigger fuss than necessary over them. Maybe that’s why when Grandma had grown beyond her tomato-growing years, she still insisted on planting them each spring. She wasn’t agile enough to properly feed, water and pick them, but she wouldn’t ever give up her beefsteak tomayters. Then about three years ago, she discovered a new brand of giant tomatoes and she insisted on my mother ordering and planting them for her. But as proud as she would be of those Better Boys, I think they were called, they didn’t compare to the ones she used to grow.
Not at all, really.
It became a painful act of courtesy – pretending to oogle over her oversized-tomatoes, which she would have to pick early because otherwise they would split on the vine, or worse, fall to the ground, from growing too big, thus leaving them short on the flavor stick. I don’t think she knew we weren’t impressed by these "prize-for-size" winning fruit. Never one for self-doubt, she was even more self-unaware in her final years.
Grandma was never able to shake the depression-era frugality that was a part of her core. So even when she was overstocked with August tomatoes, unable to eat them all, she somehow managed to put them all to work. The saddest day was the one in which Grandma bragged about her stewed tomatoes. “They had gone bad on the insides, were a bit mushy, but I just cooked them into a stew, so now they’re ok.” We tossed them out when she wasn’t looking, for the benefit of her health.
Manning lived at home by herself into her 87th year. Nurses had been hired (by my mom) and fired (by grandma) because it pained her self-sufficient heart too much to pay someone to sit in the house with her all day and do (what she thought was) next to nothing. What that means is that she was left to her own devices to feed herself (often unbeknownst to the rest of the family). Want to guess what her meal of choice would be? That’s right. A good, old-fashioned tomato sandwich. The problem is that’s ALL she was eating and after a couple of months of such an earth-friendly, self-sustainable diet, she had withered down to frail bones and skin.**
By September, Grandma’s tomatoes were spoiling and my mom convinced her mom (“Momma” is what she called her) that she would be better off in an assisted living home. Manning regretted the decision immediately. She nearly refused to eat any of the food at the facility. The only meal I remember seeing her eat at that place was …. yep….a tomato sandwich made special just for her. When she offered me the second half, I actually did want it. But no way was I going to take that little taste of goodness away from the woman who had worked so hard all her life to care for her family, but who now was without a garden or car to whisk her away to the neighborhood FoodLion to (gasp!) buy her own tomatoes.
No, I don’t eat tomato sandwiches anymore. Thanks to Dr. Atkins, I try to steer clear of any unnecessary breads, of the white variety especially. And sadly, Grandma passed away quietly on Christmas morning in 2009. But my love for that red, juicy, tangy fruit lives on -- and I do indeed indulge. Thanks for that one gift (of many), Grandma, wherever you are right now.
*Yes, that’s her name, and it took decades for anyone to recognize the irony in the fact that she was the one who wore the pants in my grandparent’s marriage.
**Real world proof that one can not actually live on tomato sandwiches.
I love tomatoes – if I don’t have a sufficient amount of tomatoes every day, I feel like something is missing in my life, kind of like if I didn’t brush my teeth, but less smelly. There have been times when the pint of tomatoes I bought at the grocery store didn’t survive the short trip home to my apartment. They seem like a vegetable but are really a fruit. I still don’t get that really, even though my trusty food expert just informed me that tomatoes are a part of the citrus family. (“Look at the pit, the seeds,” he said.) That said, my grandmother’s tomatoes were sweet enough to be considered a fruit.
Manning* grew up during the depression in the poorest part of rural Virginia. I assume that’s part of the reason why she wasn’t particularly keen to make or eat salads. So in yet another ironic twist, her delicious tomatoes were rarely cut fresh as a side salad during summertime suppers. Actually, the majority of those juicy fruits found their way into a Mason jar, in theory to be consumed during the barren months of December, January or February. In reality, most of the canned fruits found their way to the dumpster after sitting on Grandma’s shelf for a couple decades too long.
Thankfully, that isn’t the memory that made its lasting impression on my heart’s affinity for the summer fruit-vegetable. No, what did it were the hundreds of thousands of tomato sandwiches (I'm sure that's not an exaggeration) I consumed, until high school graduation catapaulted me out of the Virginia countryside and into the concrete-heavy city. I swore then, and if I didn’t know any better now, I would still swear that I could live off of those mouth-watering tomato sandwiches. White bread (yes, usually Wonderbread, unless something else was on sale), spread with full fat mayonnaise (unless she used the equivalent “salad dressing,” generic store brand, not ever Miracle Whip), two or three slices of tomato (depending on how big the produce), topped with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. One of those sandwiches was never enough. I don’t remember the record number I had in a single sitting but it was probably enough to send most tummies to the sickbed.
Grandma was always proud of her tomatoes and her tomato sandwiches and everyone in the family was happy to feed that pride with endless "oos" and "ahhs" over her harvest. I know I would stoke her ego on purpose and make a bigger fuss than necessary over them. Maybe that’s why when Grandma had grown beyond her tomato-growing years, she still insisted on planting them each spring. She wasn’t agile enough to properly feed, water and pick them, but she wouldn’t ever give up her beefsteak tomayters. Then about three years ago, she discovered a new brand of giant tomatoes and she insisted on my mother ordering and planting them for her. But as proud as she would be of those Better Boys, I think they were called, they didn’t compare to the ones she used to grow.
Not at all, really.
It became a painful act of courtesy – pretending to oogle over her oversized-tomatoes, which she would have to pick early because otherwise they would split on the vine, or worse, fall to the ground, from growing too big, thus leaving them short on the flavor stick. I don’t think she knew we weren’t impressed by these "prize-for-size" winning fruit. Never one for self-doubt, she was even more self-unaware in her final years.
Grandma was never able to shake the depression-era frugality that was a part of her core. So even when she was overstocked with August tomatoes, unable to eat them all, she somehow managed to put them all to work. The saddest day was the one in which Grandma bragged about her stewed tomatoes. “They had gone bad on the insides, were a bit mushy, but I just cooked them into a stew, so now they’re ok.” We tossed them out when she wasn’t looking, for the benefit of her health.
Manning lived at home by herself into her 87th year. Nurses had been hired (by my mom) and fired (by grandma) because it pained her self-sufficient heart too much to pay someone to sit in the house with her all day and do (what she thought was) next to nothing. What that means is that she was left to her own devices to feed herself (often unbeknownst to the rest of the family). Want to guess what her meal of choice would be? That’s right. A good, old-fashioned tomato sandwich. The problem is that’s ALL she was eating and after a couple of months of such an earth-friendly, self-sustainable diet, she had withered down to frail bones and skin.**
By September, Grandma’s tomatoes were spoiling and my mom convinced her mom (“Momma” is what she called her) that she would be better off in an assisted living home. Manning regretted the decision immediately. She nearly refused to eat any of the food at the facility. The only meal I remember seeing her eat at that place was …. yep….a tomato sandwich made special just for her. When she offered me the second half, I actually did want it. But no way was I going to take that little taste of goodness away from the woman who had worked so hard all her life to care for her family, but who now was without a garden or car to whisk her away to the neighborhood FoodLion to (gasp!) buy her own tomatoes.
No, I don’t eat tomato sandwiches anymore. Thanks to Dr. Atkins, I try to steer clear of any unnecessary breads, of the white variety especially. And sadly, Grandma passed away quietly on Christmas morning in 2009. But my love for that red, juicy, tangy fruit lives on -- and I do indeed indulge. Thanks for that one gift (of many), Grandma, wherever you are right now.
*Yes, that’s her name, and it took decades for anyone to recognize the irony in the fact that she was the one who wore the pants in my grandparent’s marriage.
**Real world proof that one can not actually live on tomato sandwiches.
