Tobias column: Celebrating and savoring grace of the tomato sandwich

It’s that time of year again. Yesterday, appearing on our kitchen table, was the first tomato sandwich of the season.

Earlier in the morning, I had gently cradled and slowly rotated the scarlet orb in my fingers, releasing it from the stem and the nestling leaves. The sheer redness had stood out from the greenery of the tall host plant, sirening the presence of treasure that lay mostly concealed in the vines.

On the cutting board, the razor-sharp steel of my chef knife incised the peel, and the aroma of weeks of condensed sun and rain and garden terroir fumed into the air. A third-inch round of red sun now lay atop a slice of brioche, and was quickly crowned with a Dairy Queen swirl of Duke’s.

The sandwich, now halved into two triangles (which must needs be done for righteousness’ sake), lay on a plate under the petals of a surprise rose. While I was out deadheading spent zinnias and coneflowers and daisies and trimming rambunctious buddleia fronds, a clementine rose gifted me with a blooming embrace of the morning sun.

Ahhhh. The first bursting taste. It was like biting into the memory of sun and grace, that marriage of umami herbaceousness and sweet fruitfulness cascaded out of every savor. I should have partaken it over the sink.

It was worth it. Time was redeemed.

The tomato sandwich culture has its own orthodoxy. Some of my stalwart associates insist that it should consist of only these four ingredients: a thick slice of tomato, two slices of Wonder Bread, a dollop of mayonnaise, and a pinch of salt.

But the tomato sandwich is susceptible of numerous interpretations. Some like brioche, or toast, or pepper. Maybe a paper-thin slice of Vidalia. When I feel particularly Bohemian, I’ll turn it into a caprese sandwich — toasted brioche, a thick juicy slice of Cherokee Purple, four or five leaves of basil (julienned, if I have time, which I never do), and dollops not of Duke’s but of fresh mozzarella.

La vita è dolce, certamente.

Of course, tomato grace is not confined to the tomato sandwich. Few things in life can compare to the poetry of spearing a cherry tomato with a toothpick and then immersing it in an earthenware bowl of freshly made — homemade — basil pesto. Have you ever crushed, with a pestle, torn basil leaves with pine nuts, drizzling fragrant olive oil until that nutty green liqueur amasses in suspension, then grate from an aged wheel of reggiano a snowfall of parmesan?

Tomatoes were born for basil. My Big Boy tomato plant has been undeservedly successful. And that’s one of the properties of grace — it’s always undeserved. My single huge plant has given it all, donating one perfect globe after another, without reserve.

I cannot account for this year’s abundance. I have a superstition, as all gardeners do. It is my belief that things that taste good together should grow together. So I planted basil on both sides of my tomato plant, and voila. This last month has been a surfeit of generosity to the point where we’ve celebrated a whole banquet of Solanum lycopersicum berries (aka, tomatoes).

There is salsa — tiny chunks of tomato, green bell pepper, onions, jalapeños, a squeeze of lemon and a healthy dose of cumin.

Then there is the heavenly gazpacho — chunks of tomato, red onion, anaheim or cubanelle pepper, cucumber, and a smashed clove of garlic blended to a puree with a slosh of good olive oil to turn it a fluffy orange (not lipstick red).

And a new scrumptious entrée my friend gave me for the summer — a pound of tomatoes cut into bite-size pieces (unpeeled, seeds and juices and all), mixed with lots of basil leaves (take off the stems), a big minced clove of garlic and lot of olive oil with salt and pepper and lemon juice, and left to stand several hours, then poured over angel hair pasta and dusted with reggiano parmigiano. An ice cold glass of pinot grigio with it will transport you to paradise.

Is it possible to be transported into reverie by a tomato? Well, yes. It just happened to you. And can one really taste memory and grace? Can mere aroma awaken not only the past, but insight into the truly important things, the very tide and currents of life, whispers of the ancient and mystic Edenic breezes?

“Redeem the time,” St Paul said. Which means to be still and recognize the deep-rooted giftedness of all Creation. Everything is profoundly meant to “give it all.” For something (or someone) to be true, that someone should enter unreservedly into the universal grace of constant self-donation. As in, “my life for yours.” Which is what tomatoes do — they give themselves away.

So what is your part when you eat a tomato sandwich, or when someone gives you this gift of total donation?

Of course, you give thanks. Redeem the time. Which is exactly, by the time you read this, what I have done.