‘Tis the season. Of tomatoes. The farmers’ markets are rife with them — glowing golden orbs, green zebra-striped gems, heirlooms the color of an especially nasty bruise, and let’s not forget the more traditional beefy blood-red beauties. Seeing them piled atop one another, bathing in the early morning (er, more like late morning) light makes me weak in the knees. Their scent is intoxicating. And their taste . . . well, let’s just say it’s been a very good year for tomatoes. These plump, fresh-from-the-dirt lovelies bear little resemblance to the wan, hard rocks you find laying listlessly in bins at the grocery store come January. I used to hate tomatoes. And then I had a good one.
Saturday morning found me at the Grand Army Plaza farmer’s market wading through piles of vegetables, each one more attractive and enchanting than the last. I wanted to take them all home. But I had a list and I was hell-bent on sticking to it. My plan was to can salsa, so I allowed myself five things: tomatoes, hot peppers, regular peppers, onions, and cilantro. Stupid list! To compensate for my self-imposed restrictions, I bought vast quantities of each.
In fact, I bought so many ingredients, I spent much of Sunday chopping. And chopping. And then I chopped some more.