TulaneLSU's thoughts on the fresh summer tomato

Dear Friends,

Tomatoes are one of the few things I enjoy about the summer. Grandfather once had a tomato row in his backyard on Prytania. I can remember him starting to till the soil in April or May and by mid-June the first of his tomatoes would appear. He was always so proud of those tomatoes. Although his backyard was shaded by several large live oaks and a magnolia, the tomatoes never failed to taste almost heavenly. I credit that deep and dark antediluvian soil God spread on this blessed land so long ago. I pray Grandfather’s tomatoes will be available in Glory.

The smile that he wore when he brought us a cardboard box of his own tomatoes is something I will never forget. It gave him the utmost of joy to share these, his precious gifts. Grandfather had a privileged life that never required manual labor or soiling his hands. This late found connection with the dust of the earth, the same dust from which God formed all of us, rooted him. The fruits of his labor were merely tasty symbols of that newfound union. They were grace heaped upon Grace.

As he aged, Grandfather became better attuned to the real beauty of this world. I believe he received this revelation through the tomato. He said to me not long before his death, "TulaneLSU, the tomato that looks perfect on the outside never is. If you want a picture perfect tomato, go to Walmart or any grocery store. If you want a tomato that really is a tomato, expect to find one that has cracks in it, that is split just a bit. Those cracks let the good in. People aren't too dissimilar."



The debate about fruit versus vegetable never interested me. Foods are one of the only things in life where I have trusted my senses to order and arrange rather than rely on scientific taxonomy. When determining if a food is a vegetable or fruit, I do not care if the seeds are inside or outside the flesh. I determine such a definition by sweet versus savory or acidic. If it is sweet, it is a fruit. If it is not, and is savory or acidic, it is a vegetable. Should this subjective, experiential system offend you, my dear friends, please accept my preemptive regrets.

One must taste a tomato before classifying it as a fruit or vegetable. Looking at a slice of a truly good tomato does not tip off the eater one way or the other. Its ruby red flesh has elements shared with the flesh of a watermelon and grapefruit. Yet I also can see the flesh of beasts in its crimson hue. One must eat it to classify it.



This was the conclusion of the U.S. Supreme Court in 1893. The Court was taxed with determining if the tomato is a vegetable or fruit. The decision stemmed from a law that forced importers to pay a 10% tax on imported vegetables but not on fruits. When a shrewd importer realized he was being taxed on a fruit, he sued the government. The Court, not surprisingly, chose the government’s argument, one that favored subjectivity over objectivity, taste over definition, opinion over fact.

The tomato is held together by a fragile membrane so thin that when skinned and the peel held to the light, it is translucent. Humans are not so different, are we? Our constitution is but paper thin and the difference between order and chaos, life and death ever so slight. I prefer to keep this outer layer intact, to remind me of that liminal space. I also always eat the rind of cheese.


Just as there are many ways to climb a mountain and roads to the Mind of God, also there are many ways to slice a tomato. Restaurants and hamburger makers have long chosen the horizontal approach, which yields a pulchritudinous circular piece. But where this shape shines in visual esthetics it sacrifices flavor. I have always preferred the approach from top to bottom. If the core is particularly large and fibrous, I will remove it first, making sure to suck on that cork, removing every last drop of tomato juice, before discarding it. Then starting from that hollowed area, I cut downward to create wedges. I find this ark-like shape transports the best flavor and texture. It is fitting that a nautical vessel shaped slice is best, as the best of the flavor comes from the acidic, soon-to-be salted waters of God’s gift.



Was the tomato torn from the tumults of briny blue expanse? Have you ever put your nose so close to a slice tomato that you had to wipe it? I try to smell all my tomatoes before eating them. And the best of the tomatoes smell of the sea. The stronger the scent of spindrift, the better the tomato.

I will never disgrace a tomato with bread or mayonnaise. Do not take my take as condescension, for I simply think, like a good burger, less is more. In my earlier ears, I would add a salad dressing like Italian to the tomato. Swimming in a bowl of oil, the taste was lovely, but the tomato’s beauty was altered, even muted. As I matured, my tomatoes received fewer and fewer additions. Today, the only thing I add to a good, right-off the vine tomato is salt, and that not always.

I can only imagine how wonderful the experience of a first tomato bite was for the European explorers who came to Mexico. It is said that at first, they avoided the tomato, believing it was poisonous. But when the first brave soul tried it, what an ode to joy he experienced. I wonder if the tomato was native also to south Louisiana. We like to claim our tomatoes are special, naming them Creole tomatoes. While a fantastic way to advertise, I do not think a tomato born from the soils of our delta are any better than those grown in south Alabama.



Friends, these were just a few thoughts I had as I ate a tomato for breakfast today. I hope your days are filled with a tomato’s worth of grace.

Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU