The growing season

A lifelong tradition is born

High summer, belly like a mooring buoy, journal entries memorializing days hotter than a hootenanny. I was ready for this baby on July 26th, but it was August and still no action. My mother, bless her, arrived early from two states away to offer what help she could, moral support if nothing else, and we were running out of obvious projects. So, we decided to tackle the backlog of ripe tomatoes attracting fruit flies on the far side of the kitchen. It was my first growing season on the farm.

Mom and I opted to make a tomato sauce recommended by Ann - friend, farm owner, culinary mentor, oh, and let’s not forget, collaborator on The Heart of Sicily, a cookbook by Anna Tasca Lanza from whence our recipe came. That’s some cachet right there.

From The Heart of Sicily

Unlike a lot of related methods, this one sounded easy and - what’s the word? - real. Fresh tomatoes, onions, garlic and basil. Olive oil. Salt and pepper. A little sugar. That’s it. In years to come, I would learn to grow all the main ingredients, but for now, using my own tomatoes and basil felt significant, like I might actually be getting somewhere with this whole farming gig.  

We set to work. I do not recollect how many hours we were at it, or how much sauce we jarred. Probably fewer of each than I might imagine, these things having a fish-story quality about them. I do know that the living room window unit was no match for the combination of a 90-degree day and the outpouring of stovetop heat, even though the house was only 600 square feet. A box fan blew hot air across my pregnant-thick ankles, and I watched a drop of sweat making its way down the side of my mother’s face. When it fell, from the cliff of her chin, I wondered, for a moment, if it had landed in the pot with everything else.

I’m on the opposite end of motherhood now, my children old enough to mother me, and I’ve not missed a sauce-making season since. In time, as farming gave way to new, related vocations, I sourced my ingredients from other producers, but the rhythm of the practice took root that first season and grew from there.

My mom never participated again, except to slurp up the fruits of my future labors, with all the pleasure of a proud parent. But there would be other collaborations, and more delicious memories generated from them.

Once, when our daughters were in kindergarten together, and her son just a wee bairn, my friend, Susan, and I thought it would be fun to make a day of it. It turned out she was too distracted by the needs of her children to be much good as a sous chef, but I’m sure a third of the world’s problems were addressed across the wooden floors of the farm cottage that day, which isn’t nothing.

There were times I joined up with Ann and her daughter, her sisters, her friends, or some combination of the three. My own children were called into service on more occasions than they probably wished. Men, it seemed, were mostly busy with other chores during these annual experiences.

It took years, and an emptying nest, before my husband decided to test the waters, but when he finally jumped in, he did so with both feet—and more. Barely underway at his outdoor work station, designed to minimize onion-induced tears, he went right into slicing open his thumb, in an exceptionally dramatic way, with a just-sharpened knife.

2016—moments before the calamity. Two, fully functional thumbs, ironically, not pictured here.

It’s worth noting that this man, a fine furniture maker by trade, is masterful with chisels, saws, power tools, and myriad other hazardous cutting instruments. That he has less practice in the kitchen is partly my fault. We’re making progress.

As you might guess, the injury took a toll on our teamwork that day, but we still got the job done. Now, when he helps out, there is an anticipatory inclination, on both our parts, to hold what I can only describe as an uh-oh face, until he sets the sharp object down for the day.  

Just ahead of her move from Maryland to New Mexico, my older daughter and I worked through a big batch together. I still don’t keep records of annual yields, but there are pictures scattered throughout my archives that help me reconstruct. Judging from the garlic and onions we set aside that year, I estimate we processed 50 pounds of tomatoes.

2018, before the first born flew the coop.

I don’t make those quantities anymore. There aren’t enough pasta-eating mouths around the table these days, nor do I have the same levels of energy. But, I can’t let go of the tradition. So devoted am I that the night before we flew to Australia to visit the younger offspring last September, I cooked up just enough sauce to be able to say, truthfully, that I’d kept the custom alive. It couldn’t have been more than two quarts.

Four days ago, I made my way through yet another round, marking the 30^th consecutive summer of this ritual. Thumb-guy took care of the onions, without incident, cleaned up all the cooking equipment when the operation was complete, and nestled the filled jars down into the belly of our chest freezer. All 20 pounds of the tomatoes we used were grown in my community garden bed. The basil was also mine, the onions and garlic from other farmers, a return to how this all began.

The house we live in now is still small, by modern standards, but it is air conditioned and filled with ceiling fans to blow the coolness around. I have a wonderfully wide work space and all the gear I need to make it easier to do what needs doing in my kitchen. My mother, now permanently departed, continues to offer what help she can, moral support if nothing else. And, the seasons carry on.

~Elizabeth

But wait, there’s more…

Because publishing someone else’s work without permission is generally frowned upon, I am including my adaptation of the recipe below. Enjoy!

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Chunky Tomato Sauce

Adapted from Salsa Pic-Pac, The Heart of Sicily

Printable version here

Ingredients:

• 1 large onion, preferably red, but a mix of red and yellow will work too - chopped

• 3 large garlic cloves – minced

• ½ cup of extra virgin olive oil - I like organic brands like Zoe or La Tourangelle

• 2 pounds ripe tomatoes, Roma (paste) types and juicier varieties in combination – peeled, loosely seeded*, and coarsely chopped. Use any tomato color you wish!

• ½ cup fresh basil leaves – torn (though I’ve been known to slice into ribbons, too.)

• Salt and fresh ground pepper, to taste

• 1 teaspoon sugar – optional, usually not needed if your tomatoes are flavorful. It can help with thickening. I would not recommend increasing this ingredient proportionally, if you are making a large quantity. Start small, taste, and add in small increments, if needed.

Method:

Choose a pan or pot suited to how much sauce you are making. Add olive oil and warm over medium heat. Well before the oil is hot, add onions and garlic. Stir often, sautéing until softened and translucent. Add the peeled, chopped tomatoes and any juice that has accumulated in the bowl or on the cutting board. Stir to combine and cook for 15 minutes. Add half the basil, salt and pepper, and sugar, if using. Partially cover and continue cooking until the sauce thickens to your liking. The rate of thickening and final consistency of the sauce are very much dependent on the tomatoes you’ve used. When making a large batch, you may want to simmer it for an hour or more, stirring occasionally. Smaller recipes will require less cooking time. At the very end, when you are done cooking, add the rest of the basil.

As written, this yields 3-4 cups of sauce.

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Notes, and a few more pictures:

This recipe can be increased, proportionally, for large batches. It works beautifully as is, but I almost never make it that way. You can’t be surprised about that.

No need to sweat the details here. Having slightly more or less of any ingredient will not be a game changer. Tomato selection is the most important part. Do your darnedest to source locally grown (or home grown), vine-ripened options when they are in season and abundant. Go for flavorful types more than for uniformity in color or shape.

*Here’s a video tutorial for how to peel and seed your tomatoes. My method differs, but I couldn’t find a similar guide to point you toward, so I’ll summarize here:

• I don’t make an x first.

• Working in batches, I sink tomatoes into boiling water, using either a colander or slotted spoon, leaving them there for a minute or so, depending on size and ripeness. Rearrange their position, as needed, to be sure all parts are submerged.

• Cut away bad spots or blemishes, and save these compromised tomatoes for your final dunking, as they will leave more of themselves behind in the water.

• Save and reuse the same boiling water, replenishing with additions from time to time, until all your tomatoes are done.

• As they are ready, remove tomatoes to a big bowl of cold water (no ice), refreshed as needed.

• When tomatoes are cool enough to handle, cut out the core with a sharp paring knife, then gently squeeze the tomato over a bowl. The skin will slip off as many of the seeds squirt out.

• The goal is not to remove them all, just enough to reduce the liquid component of the final sauce a little bit.

Rearrange position of the tomatoes, if needed, to make sure all parts get submerged.

Peeling and seeding. Note the collected pulp and skins in the container at left.

I would highly recommend peeling your tomatoes, but you don’t have to go to the trouble of seeding. There are different schools of thought on this, with some folks suggesting that the seeds and pulp add flavor. If you choose to skip the seeding step, the finished product will be delicious but slightly thinner. The sauce recipe, as written, does not produce a particularly thick result, so keep that in mind. If you do choose to seed, you can save and freeze the leavings for use in soups or stews later.

Mr. Knife, at work this year.

All tomato colors are welcome here.

I’d love to know if you try this recipe, or if you have one of your own you use. Happy eating!