Let's rip tomatoes this summer 🍅🍅🍅

celebrating two years in Italy

When I think about tomatoes, the only thing I can think of is that I’m doomed. Doomed to compare every future tomato I eat with the tomatoes of Campania. Every tomato I eat in Italy, I think, it will not get better than this. But somehow it always does.

eater

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When I lived in the US, I was not a fan of this fruit. There was no flavor in the moon-shaped slices I would find in my sad salads, the color dulled to a pale red, and the skins were tough as they crunched between my teeth. I always nibbled cautiously, afraid to encounter a mealy center; the fuzz creating a texture that felt triggered my gag reflex. I ate them to get my lycopene fix because they were “good for me”. I longed for the rare month of August when Jersey tomatoes were fat, plump, and sprinkled with salt and pepper over a good sandwich. I also popped summer cherry tomatoes where I could find them - they had the acidic, sweet, burst of flavor that rounded out salads.

Here in Italy, I never have to worry about tasteless tomatoes. If Neapolitans knew how good they had it, they would remove their Diego Maradonna effigies and start praying to the Patron Saint of Pomodorini. Instead, vibrant, accessible, flavorful tomatoes are just a common fact of life here. Neapolitans have an air of nonchalance that borders on cockiness because everyone knows that the tomatoes here are the best.

A few weeks ago, we were coming back from a hike on the Amalfi Coast, and we saw a roadside stand of Piennolo del Vesuvio tomatoes. On the side of the road, hanging from a wooden cart, was a thick vine of cascading ruby red tomatoes, resembling a tomato chandelier. We threw it in the back of our car, and I worried it was too much - how could two people eat an entire tomato chandelier? However, the juicy, blood-red tomatoes were devoured within days. We made salad with feta and cucumber, sautéed them with white fish, and popped them into our mouths as snacks. When I bit into them, I felt the tangy juices flowing through my veins like a shot of tequila. I imagine myself putting the tomato on my hand, sprinkling it with sea salt, and then dousing it in olive oil before I throw it back, my hair blowing in the wind. This was a *ucking tomato.

As I walked around Municipio last week, jetting off to various islands from the Port in Napoli, I reflected on how much I’ve learned since I moved to this same neighborhood two years ago. The ferry terminal was still overcrowded, the streets were still impossible to walk on, and multiple people still elbowed me out for a seat - but I knew how to navigate it and didn’t let it faze me. I negotiated in Italian for taxi prices, confidently chatted with neighbors in Ponza, and deeply relaxed on the beach chairs, genuinely feeling amazed by how many wonderful experiences I’ve gotten to have.

The woman who moved here was often overwhelmed and bothered, maladjusted and frequently complaining. I did things cautiously, acting out of obligation or social pressures. I had the occasional seasonal respite - a trip to visit a friend, a special evening by the ocean - but I had a hard time adjusting to life in Napoli. I am not that woman anymore. I have fully succumbed to the fact that I am raising my vibrations. I am expecting more and better. Perhaps most importantly, I won’t stand for mealy tomatoes.

Do you have any tomato takes or recipes? Last summer, I tried making this tomato tart and it was a banger. Happy Memorial Day Weekend to my US readers, the unofficial start to summer. My summer anthem? “The Future is None of my Business”.

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