Like Biting into August

I've become nostalgic lately. A friend and I were texting back and forth a couple months ago, and she said that with all that happened last year, I've had to come back to zero. Back to zero. I wrote that expression down on a sticky note and tacked it to my wall. She's right. In order to plod on, it's necessary to start right where you are. To be here now. To come back to zero. Oftentimes I feel like life is one of those childhood gadgets. The Etch-a-Sketch. I was obsessed with drawing pictures and writing words, and midway through, shaking the little toy like there's no tomorrow. Funnily enough, life would similarly follow suit.

I believe each word of the empowering quotes out there about being very gentle with yourself. Tenderness is required. It will be ok. Therapy has revealed a necessary, critical even, step backward in order to move forward. And I've always identified with the old Japanese proverb, "fall down seven times, rise up eight."

So it comes as no surprise to embrace nostalgia in the form of food. Do you ever find yourself preparing foods from your childhood in order to stay young, of course, let's be honest here, aging isn't a picnic...but also something more. Something deeper. To remember? A nod to innocence? I recently watched the film The Hundred Foot Journey (twice) and was captivated from start to finish. That is a blog post in and of itself. Breathtaking. Exquisite. The first time it was all visual and my senses were on overload. What a feast of the eyes. Upon a second viewing the language started to hit me, the writing, and the quote "food is memories" struck a chord. Food IS memory. Food is identity. Food is nostalgia. Remembrance through flavor of a time long past, fondly held onto.

When I left the theater all I could think about was sea urchins and what it would feel like to carefully pinch my fingers into one and insert that flavor into my mouth. Then I thought of tomatoes. Not sure how the two were related but at first glance they were the two scenes that captured my attention the most. I hope I'm not giving too much away, but when the main character, Hassan, bites into a tomato like an apple a wave of nostalgia overtook me.

Immediately I was transported to central Pennsylvania, summer in the 90s. Walking through the tiny lanes and avenues of my grandfather's small garden. It was my comfort zone, in an otherwise anxiety-ridden environment. When tensions were high I was able to walk out to that little plot of land and immerse myself in the tomato plants. They were high and they smelled like nothing I'd smelled before. Hot, raw earth. I'd sort through, scanning the big red globes with my eyes. I was probably 7 or 8. I'd spot a ripe one, instructed by my grandmother to only go for the ruby red ones, the ones that felt bulky and soft in the hand, and gently tug. Such care and obsessiveness. It was in that garden, safe, where I started my lifelong love affair with food. It was there, plucking that huge tomato, dipping it into the pool and crunching in, where I felt the healing properties of food, the bright sun and deep soil and rainwater converging in my mouth. The welcome pause on summer. Like biting into August.

Few experiences are as gripping for me. I've yet to grow a tomato myself that in any way compares to my grandfather's beefsteaks. The burst of sun-ripened flesh and seeds (combined with a little chlorine) is what kept me going the long weeks of summer.

I want that feeling again any time I pass by a farm stand during the month of August. Anywhere. I'm in Virginia now, in a town where I'm happy to discover farmer's markets and local food to be trendy. I was driving one night and veered off into a little Episcopalian church parking lot on the way home. A tiny farmer's market. Virginia country roads beg for you to stop alongside and see what the locals are growing. I love taking drives and finding fresh eggs on the side of the road, sitting out in a cooler next to a little envelope. The honor system. Americana. Or a veggie share, composed of a wooden rack covered with cucumbers and zucchini. The benevolence of neighborhood farmers. This day, I was drawn to a friendly-looking vendor selling homemade canned dill pickles, the old-fashioned style in a large Mason Ball jar. I had to get one. I've purchased 3 since. In 3 weeks I have spent $28 on pickles. Then this past Friday night I was driving home again and saw the same farmer on the side of the road by himself. Stopped again. And the most marvelous grouping of tomatoes were splayed out on his stand. Smelling one, it took me back. There's that nostalgia again. I know it's repetitive, but isn't nostalgia supposed to be? I was again in central PA clambering among the thick green vines, searching for solitude and the perfect pluck. I bought the gnarliest looking tomato and another jar of pickles, and couldn't wait to get home.

There was one thing on my mind. A tomato sandwich. Just tomatoes. Nothing more. Plain and simple. The tomato, the bread, and maybe a little salt. That's it. I searched some websites for recipes. Well not really recipes, because it's kind of self-explanatory, but stories. I needed to read through the familiar history of tomato sandwiches even though this would be my first of the kind. Luckily there were a plethora of articles and I settled on a few, one from Eatocracy and one from The Huffington Post. They did not disappoint. (And Kat Kinsman is a brilliant and hilarious food writer. I just love her. And kind of need her job.)

I faced my fear of mayo and dove into the Hellman's jar. It was a quick swipe, but one that I think produced the full effect. What you need is two pieces of store-bought white bread. I know, I know. No artisans, please. A huge tomato, thickly sliced. My slices turned out to be all different sizes and cuts. Some were thick and some were thin, but only because I don't have knife skills. And clearly I will be gifting my parents with a knife sharpener for Christmas. The trick is to not use overkill. A little salt goes a long way. It pulls the juices. A tiny dash of pepper, just enough for me to start sneezing all over the kitchen. The bread can't be toasted. It will be the kind of bread that sticks to the roof of your mouth. That's actually how you know the sandwich is working. And when pressed ever so slightly with the tip of your finger, a little fingerprint emerges. Totally normal too. You pile the perfectly haggard tomato slices on one side. And then cover and cut. Bite into it, preferably at 1 am standing over the kitchen sink. In your pjs. I'm not sure there is a better sandwich. Sorry BLT, I'm breaking up with you.

The photo does not do the experience justice, but I'm glad I took one. To remember. It's all about nostalgia here. Again, biting right into August. Ideally one should eat one a day at least during the final month of summer, which is why when I discovered Jonathan's (the name of farmer) tomatoes at a little Amish store, I bought 4 right away. It is 12:40 am and I think I'm going to go have one right now...