No one asked me about Talmage’s Tomatoes

 

I was picking up a few groceries tonight and decided we needed ripe tomatoes.   I debated over the ones in the cyropack, hot house grown or the ones on the vine, still hot house.  Then I rounded a corner and there they were in all their glory ……….  Local ripe tomatoes, supreme in their imperfection’s and packed in a woven wooden basket.   Memories flooded back, I added the basket to my cart.

 

While we waited for Bumpie to bring around the van I asked my granddaughter if I had ever told her about the time we only had tomatoes for supper.  

 “Yes,” said Marcie. “That was when you were a kid and your father brought home the basket of tomatoes and the bottle of Miracle Whip because you never had that in your house.  Yes you told me.” 

And so I had!   For me that experience was indelibly etched in my memory.  I was eight, the year was 1958 and we lived at the Narrows, in Carleton County, New Brunswick.  One day my Dad went to “do business” and did not return until almost dark.  For some reason we had not eaten supper, as we called our evening meal.  Perhaps Mother was sick or we had a late lunch, at any rate I was hungry then Dad came bursting through the door with a bushel of ripe tomatoes and a big jar of Miracle Whip.  He called to Mother to bring bread, butter, salt and pepper and milk.  I scurried to set the table.  As quickly as Mother could slice her wonderful homemade bread Dad slathered the slices in butter and mayo and topped with the tomatoes.  Soon all had a sandwich.  And as we ate Dad started to talk about his day, a visit to Maugerville, getting his cows from the island, selling those cows, some financial discussions and then stopping at the fruit stand where he purchased the tomatoes.  

 



 “Taste what you are eating, “said Dad, “this is a gift from the land. You can taste the sun in these tomatoes!” 

And I could.  We spent an hour or more at the table, eating tomato sandwiches, discussing gardening and growing, complimenting Mother on her wonderful bread, drinking milk.  It is one of my fondest memories.

 

 

 

Talmage Vail, my father, loved tomatoes in any form.  Beefsteaks were his favorite ripe tomatoes and he knew their secrets long before the chic chefs.  He would slice his tomato thick, sprinkle with salt and pepper and leave for the juices to loosen as he prepared the rest of his meal.  When in season tomatoes were eaten for breakfast, lunch, suppers and snacks.  For Dad they were often accompanied by a piece of old cheddar cheese. 

Dad also loved what he called tomato stew, canned tomatoes heated with milk with a little baking soda (makes them fizz and prevents curdling of the milk).    Mother was no fan of tomato soup but she knew the usefulness of the red fruit and in my teens she often canned at least fifty bottles of our own garden tomatoes.  To this day my 87 year old mother has a ripe tomato every morning for her breakfast. 

Tonight I followed my Father’s lead.  I selected my tomato, after carefully examining each one in the basket, and sliced it.  Toasted my bread, from Soleil Bakery – not as good as my Mother’s was, but …..  No fat counting here, I lathered on the Becel and low fat Hellmans, topped with the tomatoes; I had a snack fit for a king.