The Tomato Farmer

I suppose many women think their fathers can do anything.  The truth of the matter is, my dad really could.  He could single-handedly build a new room on a house, re-upholster furniture, hem his own pants, re-plumb or re-wire a house, change the oil or spark plugs in a car, execute a perfect swan dive from the high diving board, turn a somersault on a trampoline. Of all the things he COULD do well, perhaps the one he loved the most was farming.  Some of his happiest days, I believe, were probably the years of his retirement when he and my mother built a house on thirty acres and bought a tractor.  Every year after they moved to their new home, he cultivated a productive little garden plot growing the best tomatoes I have ever tasted.


Daddy grew up in a farming family.  He did truck farming, among other odd jobs, to put himself through college.  It is no surprise he got a degree in Agriculture from Alabama Polytechnic University, better known these days as Auburn University.  He worked in the poultry industry from the time he graduated from college until his retirement in 2000, but most summers, he cultivated a small plot of vegetables in our suburban back yard.

I remember distinctly one summer when I was a teenager, Daddy turned the whole of our yard into a garden.  When the tomatoes began to ripen in earnest, he would work his square job all day long traveling across north Georgia servicing poultry farms, only to come home in the evenings and work in the garden until dark.  My mother was in graduate school that summer and had little time to help.  My sister and I must have been pretty useless when it came to farming and canning, because I don't remember lending much of a hand in the effort.  When I think about that summer, I remember Daddy donning an apron in the kitchen and canning tomatoes.  There were so many tomatoes coming in that he turned to odd-ball recipes like homemade ketchup to help use the surplus.  Today I would probably consider his ketchup a gourmet treat.  When I was fourteen or so, I just remember thinking, "What the heck is this?"  Oh the glorious hindsight of middle age!


I sure have missed his tomatoes this summer!  There was nothing like them.  They weren't perfect.  As a matter of fact, most of them were down right ugly to look at with a craggy exterior and the occasional odd appendage.  But somehow he could grow a tomato with just the right amount of acidity and sweetness, both juicy and meaty at the same time.  The ultimate summer treat was a sandwich made with one of Daddy's tomatoes.  Just some good bread, a nice swipe of mayonnaise, a few layers of sliced tomatoes and a judicious sprinkle of salt and pepper.  Nothing better!

A couple of years ago, the weather was just right and we were still eating fresh tomatoes at Thanksgiving.  As good as they always were, Daddy was an awful critic, complaining about blossom end rot, aphids and fluctuations in the rainfall that played havoc with their growth.  But no matter how they looked on the outside, when you cut into them and caught a whiff of what was hiding within, you knew you were about to eat something special.


All this talk about tomatoes--it's just a smoke screen.  It's not the tomatoes I miss so much, it's my dad. It's just easier to talk about the tomatoes. Daddy died August 19th last year at the height of summer when the tomato harvest was in full swing.  In those days that followed, I felt closest to him every morning when I would grab a basket and help my mom gather the wealth of tomatoes hanging heavily from the vines.  There were about 15 plants thriving there, all as tall as me.  You'd think those plants would have taken a break as a courtesy of some kind, but what Daddy put in motion as he prepared the soil for planting early that spring had a momentum all its own, producing dozens each day by late August.  We finally put a table up in the garage with plastic bags available for family and neighbors to come by and take what they wanted.

I think we sometimes tend to idealize our loved ones after they are gone, making them super-human in our memories.  I sure don't want to do that or then the pressure will be on to become super-human myself and that would be an awful burden to bear.  But although, like his tomatoes, he may have had a "wart" or two, what he was to me as a father is more than I can describe.  I may be my mother's daughter, but the nut didn't fall far from the tree with my dad, either.  I learned to "measure twice and cut once" at his feet and can aptly apply that adage in most any arena of my life, becoming overly analytical and hyper-logical when a good approximation might do.  If I have confidence in my own abilities it is because Daddy gave his wife and daughters wings to reach for their dreams. And occasionally when I'm deep in concentration, I realize my tongue is sticking out just like Daddy's used to.


We've determined not to mope around this week counting what we've lost.  As a matter of fact, my mom is at church tonight leading a grief support group, helping other people walk through their own loss.  We all plan to eat tomatoes every chance we get this summer.  You'll understand, though, if in our lack of objectivity they all fall a little short of the tomatoes we remember.


I offer this recipe in memory of my dad, Gene Lambert, "the Tomato Farmer."

Roasted Tomato Salsa
4-5  tomatoes, the uglier the better, cut lengthwise in quarters
1 small onion, peeled and cut lengthwise into quarters
2 jalapeno peppers, cut in half lengthwise, seeds removed
olive oil
A good handful of cilantro, chopped
juice of one lime
a splash of balsamic or other vinegar
salt and pepper to taste

1.  Preheat grill to medium high.  Put a large piece of heavy duty foil over the grate.  Splash a little olive oil on the foil.  Spread the tomatoes, onion and peppers across the foil in a single layer and use tongs to roll them around in the oil a bit.

2.  Allow the tomato mixture to soften and blacken, turning occasionally with the tongs.

3.  When the tomatoes are softened and juices are bubbling on the foil, pull the foil up and together by all four corners to contain the contents with their juices.  Put foil and all into a bowl and allow to cool.
4.  When cool, dump all into a blender or food processor and puree.
5.  Add the lime juice, cilantro, salt and pepper to taste, along with just a splash of the vinegar.  Taste and correct seasoning.  Serve with tortilla chips.