Earlier this summer, while paying for my stash of freshly picked strawberries from Barefoot Farms, I noticed a woman who looked like she was the type to have shelves full of preserves, jars of pickled things and a rolling pin. So, I asked her if she had a favorite strawberry recipe.
She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “Pick ‘em, eat ‘em,” and then dusted off one from a bucket and popped it in her mouth for emphasis. Because, of course, that’s what one should do with a fresh–picked strawberry busting with sun-warmed juices. I loved the simplicity of her answer but also the unspoken (and perhaps imagined) rebuke: You don’t have to make a big deal about everything, Missy.
So, while I’m good with just pick ‘em/eat ‘em recipes, when it comes time for tomato picking season at Barefoot and Dempsey Farms, I have definite opinions.
The art of the summertime tomato sandwich can have endless variations that I’m sure are valid and based on personal preferences. But for me, there is only one right way.
Ingredients:
*It starts with a ripe, fresh from the ground tomato, preferably picked a few hours before serving. The uglier and more mishappen, the better, and you know it’s perfect if a whiff of dirt blows up your nose when you sniff its freshness.
*White bread
*Duke’s Real Mayonnaise
*Salt and Pepper
Directions:
Wash fat, fresh tomatoes and then slice them as thick as your thumbnail. If they are the perfect ripeness, the juices will flow from the wound. Allow them to rest on a paper towel while you slather creamy white Duke’s mayo onto both slices of white bread. Gently lay the tomatoes on the bread, letting them overlap the edges.
Add a generous shake of salt and pepper and then lean over the kitchen sink and take a bite. If the red juice flows down your chin and splashes on your arms, you know you are doing it right.
Serve with sweetened iced tea, a bowl of chilled watermelon chunks and a bag of Lays potato chips.
That’s the basic recipe. If you want to add in crisply fried bacon, lettuce and cheese, feel free. But don’t call it a tomato sandwich.
Additional notes
About the white bread. One day, a week or so into kindergarten, my oldest daughter came home with a note from the mother of a new friend. Apparently, this super mom was packing lunches with a delicacy highly coveted by my child. The mother’s note to me read: “Wonder Bread, crusts cut off, 4th child, don’t judge.”
Up until that point, my little angel only consumed whole grain breads, or as she described it once she discovered there were options, “brown.”
Even now, when I purchase a loaf of white bread you should know I don’t do it without overly explaining. “It’s just for the tomato sandwiches,” I tell the Publix check-out girl who surprisingly does not seem to care.
About Duke’s Mayonnaise. Summer caught up with me before realizing my new son-in-law had not indicated if he was a Duke’s, Hellman’s or Miracle Whip guy. Because somehow, we forgot to suggest they add that hard conversation to their pre-nuptial planning. One marries into all kinds of traditions, including their salad dressing choices, fat-free versus light, squeeze bottle versus old–fashioned glassbottle and so forth. None of which matters until the time comes to put the mayo on the bread. Luckily, for all of us, he declared my Duke’s/tomato sandwich a perfect match. And he even let the juice drip down his chin.
He’s a keeper.
Carry on!
