This is my end-of-the-season swan song to the tomatoes in our orto. As the vines wither at the bottom, there are yellow blossoms still sprouting at the top, and green fruit just hanging on in the middle. We spent the cold, wet spring together, you endured hail and high winds, while we worried and tried to protect you. You blossomed in the July heat and produced massive amounts of fruit in August. And now, you are closing down for the winter.
I’ve had a LOT of time to think about tomatoes, and I realized I was not paying attention. Tomatoes love bread, and bread loves them back. They were meant to be together.
There’s a little island, off the coast, between Roma and Napoli and it is calling our name. A craggy crescent of volcanic rock, Circe once ruled Ponza, singing her siren song to the tragic Ulysses. Perhaps, we’re hearing the call?Read More