A paen to pomodori italiani

Tomatoes may have come from the "New World," but pomodori, as they are known in Italia, have really found the dolce vita living on Europe's boot-shaped peninsula. They are big stars of cucina italiana. They played many an unforgettable role in the epicurean epic that was my summer vacation in Tuscany.

Rows of fruit-laden tomato vines in the "kitchen garden" expertly tended by the family who runs Agriturismo La Valle in the central Tuscan town of Montaione fueled a weeks's worth of my family's lycopene loading.

Lest anyone question my alimentary allegiances, I refer you at the outset to my previous posts praising tomatoes grown in the good old U S of A. (E.g., "God save the Sungolds" Aug. 24, 2009 (citing recipes); accord "Farmers market finds" Oct. 8, 2009 (picturing one of the most perfect Vermont-grown heirloom tomatoes ever picked). Now that I have hopefully insulated this blog from being blacklisted by the second-coming of the House UnAmerican Activities Committee that I expect the Tea Party to revive any day now, I can safely sing the praises of foreign fruit.

The pomodori pictured above showed great versatility. They stood boldly on their own as afternoon snacks: sliced thick, sprinkled with salt, and drizzled with piquant evoo also from La Valle. They supported rich slabs of fresh mozzarella splashed with truffled balsamic vinegar (by the time the trip was over Joslyn was ready to drink that stuff straight). They balanced onions, zucchini, olives, lettuce, and chunks of stale bread softened in our version of the classic panzanella salad shown below.

Owing to the fact that salt used to be very expensive and fairly scarce in Italy (the state used to have a monopoly in salt), Tuscan bread is traditionally salt-free and thus fairly bland. It's no wonder then that so many classic Tuscan recipes incorporate stale bread--there's usually plenty left-over bread to go stale. Papa al pomodoro, a hearty tomato and bread soup, was another of these that I had the pleasure of sampling in a couple of restaurants. It's real rib-sticking stuff; soup that makes you chew through its smoky thickness.

One evening, we were feted by the wonderful Mughinis, my adopted Italian family who housed me when I was an exchange student. Among the many courses they served were these baked tomatoes bursting with onions, peas, rice, and black olives that are first sauteed in oil with the seeds and flesh scooped from the tomatoes.

But of all the roles tomatoes play in Italian food, award winning eaters everywhere agree that they shine most brightly in sauce.

When I lived at home after college, my dad tilled up a good chunk of our lawn to put in tomatoes. As they ripened fast and furious in the dog days of summer, my dad dedicated his evenings to turning them into sauce. When he was done, he'd freeze batches in zip lock bags ensuring supply for the winter months. In particularly bountiful years, he filled our freezer with so many bags of red sauce that it looked like a Red Cross blood bank.

Working at his side, I learned his preferred method: core, seed, salt and oven roast in a pan with nothing else but oil until the water cooks off and you are left with the the undiluted essence of the tomato. I think it is fair to say that his primary motivation was eating the final product tossed with the exotic pasta shapes he was always (and still is) buying. There is no doubting, however, that he loves the process too. Observe his deep concentration in the photo above as he practiced the familiar ritual, this time with La Valle tomatoes that sauced one of our final ooh-and-ahh-filled vacation meals.

I've always loved my dad's sauces. The one he made in Italy will live long among my memories of great meals.

I'd be lying, however, if I didn't rank the sauce that I made with cherry tomatoes from the village of Pomonte on the Isola d'Elba (where I stayed for the second week of the vacation) slightly higher. Cherry tomatoes deliver an intensity that their larger relatives cannot match. The cherries simmering in the photo above came from the small farms that crowded the fertile Pomonte valley where the mountains meet the Mediterranean. Like my dad, I kept it simple. Tomatoes, oil, salt. Even incorporated into a lasagna rich with ricotta, mozarella, pecorino romano, grilled melanzana , and zucchini, this sauce sang sweetly of the tomatoes' brief, sun-kissed life in the paradise that is Pomonte on Elba's "costa del sole."

Grazie mille, pomodori italiani. Vi non dimentichero` mai!