Instagram, behold my pouting tomatoes
‘This simple, humble dish was as good as anything you’d get in Italy’
IACTUALLY thought of joining social media last week. Instagram probably. What was it that moved me to do so? A pouting selfie that looked so good I wanted to share it with the world? A bloated ‘food baby’ stomach that I wanted to put up to show that you should never assume a man is pregnant because he has been eating too much white bread? A picture of me and my VBFs enjoying a new bar/restaurant/product? No.
Actually it was my tomatoes. I was so proud of them. I couldn’t actually believe they turned red in the end, like actual tomatoes. And you could eat them, just like real tomatoes you’d buy in a shop. I held a bunch of them in my hands and got my wife to take a picture. It was biblical looking. In the absence of anyone else to share it with who would give a damn I sent it to my niece, who will always pretend to appreciate such things.
They started reddening up hard and fast over the bank holiday weekend, and because we were having a mini-break at home, we had the time and energy to make several tomato-based dishes. Sunday brunch was scrambled eggs mess with Gubbeen chorizo and onions with a side of fried tomatoes all on rye sourdough toast. “How much would you pay for this in a hipster brunch spot?” I asked out loud, to which the correct answer is, “You wouldn’t get it in a hipster brunch spot.” We doubled down on Monday. Breakfast was a Mexican eggs concoction with avocado and paprika and feta and crushed tortilla chips, and of course tomatoes. And then, on Sunday evening, I chopped up a load of them, added oil, salt, sugar and basil, let them macerate for a while, then cooked them while the spaghetti was on, adding a slight bit of chilli heat and a bit of butter. Even the kids, who give out about spiciness but then come back for more, were forced to agree that this simple, humble dish was as good as anything you’d get in Italy.
While there is certainly something delicious about freshly picked food, I think most of it was in my head. These toms tasted all the sweeter because I had nurtured them along and seen them grow. I felt like a man of the soil, a manly man, in touch with the earth, like that guy from the River Cottage mixed with Ernest Hemingway. I was providing for my family. Feeding us all from the sweat of my brow.
Admittedly, most of the ones we have actually eaten came from a hanging-basket tomato set-up that already had little berries on it when we got it. My neighbour’s wife gave us this after he had encouraged me to start planting. He had me at it from scratch, and I think she intervened then, in that way that women often do, to prevent total disaster, by giving me a plant that was half way there already. It was like an elaborate version of a supermarket basil plant, one step back from buying tomatoes on the vine. The plants I started from scratch have only yielded about half a dozen red tomatoes so far. But there is a fine crop of green ones on them, so hopefully there is still time for them to redden up. The neighbour says our wall is perfect for it, like Spain, he says. Sun all day.
High on lycopene, I did an extreme dead-heading of the from-scratch plants after dinner. Every single tiny limb that did not have a tomato on it but that was, in my mind, draining energy from the tomatoes, was sheared away. So we are now left with naked vines covered in green tomatoes. My wife asked me if I was sure I was supposed to do that. I told her that this was the final push, so dramatic measures were called for.
After the elder one sat next to me demanding more of more of my tomato pasta, I explained to her that the reason it was so nice was because I cultivated the tomatoes with my own hands. Next year, I grandly announced, her and me would grow loads of tomatoes and we would make this dish together, farm to fork. She pretended to be pleased. There is talk of a veg trough, that would allow for growing some veg without disturbing my fake grass. The neighbour has been keen to get me into some potatoes. I fancy trying a few courgettes. I’ve even convinced myself that my time spent with my hanging basket and the two plants of the three from-scratch ones that lived has been therapeutic. Who knows, I might even Google tomato growing before I go again, just so I know. Or else, it will all be forgotten and I will move on to something else. Who can say?