Green Tomatoes

Yes, I'm talking to you, Green Tomatoes. God knows, I'd heard of you, cause of that 1991 movie with Kathy Bates as Evelyn Couch. But, Southerner that I am, I somehow never tasted immature green tomatoes until plump and sun-ripened, all crimson and tender. Granted this was a daily ritual, with S  & P and mayo, of course, all delicately arranged beside cornbread, with lima beans and rice and oh-my-god shrimp boiled in beer.  Et voila: a perfect summer ritual, deliciously satisfying and comfortingly familiar. I can always depend on the ripened crimson you to bring a meal alive. But how different I am cause of you in your immature green state. I am amazed.

When I was--finally, at long last, and quite recently--served you green, in the deep-South tradition
(read: batter fried), I was just plain leery. I had only heard of fried green tomatoes in the movie title (above). And the movie sparked some folks I knew to say they eat them that way. I was one comfortable degree of separation away from eating green tomatoes of any preparation whatsoever, for years. So yeah, when you appeared right there on my dinner plate last month, time suddenly stopped. I felt my knees go weak and trembly. The experience reminded me of the first time I was served gumbo at home. I just looked at it and felt uncomfortably squirmy inside, kinda like I was getting ready to eat snake or a squirrel, or something gross like that. Okay, that would be worse, cause they're squirmy animals and all, but I'm trying to convey that I had no context for what the gumbo (or FGT) would taste like. And that was frightening. Being reminded of that first unforgetably unpleasant bite of okra in the gumbo made looking at the FGT worse. The unceasing sliminess of the entire spoonful, and the hard snotty little seeds, to boot,  that popped when chewed made my sister call it "yuck-ball." But, I was a brave girl scout, just the way my momma taught me to be (nay commanded me to be) at the proper dinner table…"just a spoonful, Honey," she'd prod. And so down the hatch you went. I tried to control my queezy stomach, and took solace in knowing that we didn't play the clean plate club game at my house, so one spoonful completed my familial requirement to taste everything.

In the intervening years, I've been served gumbo maybe a dozen times. Try as I may, it never was a pleasant experience. I just didn't like it. So I finally just stopped trying. I learned to eat around the gumbo and life has rolled merrily along. Imagine my surprise, however, when I tried fried okra and liked it. Okay, the ketchup helped a lot, so I'm not saying much, here, cause anything fried and in ketchup tastes 'bout the same. But it changed my mindset a bit.

So last month, when this fried green tomato showed up on my dinner plate, smiling up at me like it wanted to engage me in a contest, I both felt the familiar tug to try something new, (was my momma at table with me, looking over her glasses at my foot-shuffling discomfort?) and the repulsive instinct to run like hell ("For Pet's sake, I'm over 50. Get over it!") Green tomatoes, fried? Really? I kinda wanted to. But the kid inside me was doubting even the theory of liking it. There was a chance it would it taste alright, like other fried foods. But I wasn't convinced. My fork reached over and poked it good and I  saw that it wasn't hard like that okra I'd liked. It was soft, like tempura. Scary. I watched that fork take the long slow train ride to my mouth. And thank God for Momma, I have to admit, once the deed was done, once that bite made it inside my mouth, I thanked God for my momma. Indeed, I humbly admit that I loved it. Your mushy texture was almost like well cooked egg-plant, but with a light crispy batter that was just enough foil to make my experience pure heaven. Fried green tomatoes. Go figure. I was sold. Me. 'nuff said.

My Southern peers may laugh at how long it took me to come of age in the FGT world, how green I myself had been. I can empathize, I suppose. Perhaps it's how I'd feel about meeting someone who'd never eaten grits. Poor soul, I'd say to myself, you dunno wha-chur missin'. So I get it. But now that I'm an initiate--nay, a goner--I'll never be the same. I have seen the light. Fried Green Tomatoes am I.

But that is just part of the story. 

Now we're into July and the bounteous fullness of the summer harvest is upon us. I have brought a big round basket to the community garden, for carrying the booty. This is my first year picking in a garden, and it feels like a game of I Spy. "I Spy something green under that gigantic leaf." Yes, it's a cucumber! Those must be picked daily, or they'll become woody. I spy something else green, but small and peculiarly shaped. Is that an okra? They look so cute on the vine! I'll pick a couple handfuls of 'em, careful of the leaves and stem, so as not to get itchy. Note to self…wear long sleeves next time. Scratch, scratch. In my excitement of finding a variety of garden delights, I forget how much I dislike eating okra. I pick them cause they needed to be picked. So in they go, along side the green beans, zucchini, summer squash, sweet potatoes. Blame it on the dry summer sun beating its intolerable heat down upon me. The unusually hot early July-weather that's already turning the grass all around us crispy brown. Yeah, I know we get up to the high 90s every Summer in the Piedmont of North Carolina, but those early summer triple digits catch me off guard. I am feeling slick all over with sweat, just walking around, picking. I taste salt as liquid drips down my face and into the corners of my mouth. I notice how dry my mouth is on the inside, so I lick my lips again. Mmmmm. Doing anything else feels impossible, too much effort. A walk in the woods? Not today! But as I continue to make my rounds around the garden, I thank the plants for their profusion, their sacrifice, and their generosity. Satisfied, I my thoughts turn to how pleasant dinner is going to be. 

I think philosophically about how plants become food. At which point in time does this happen? When it's ripening? When it's in my mouth? I'm aware that I'm seeing the fruit of the plant as food, the way the tiger eyes the deer. I am salivating, just thinking of the feast to come. 

And then I find myself thinking practical thoughts. How am I gonna cook this food up? This kind of muggy heat is what porch chairs and iced tea were made for. Stovetop cooking is out, really out. No way. In fact, I may never cook again, considering my current state of mind. And look at those tomatoes I'm thinking about picking, they're so green. You tomatoes, you'll never ripen on the windowsill if I pick you. No way in Hell I'm gonna try batter frying you today, not in this heat. I'll look closer at you, and I'll touch your skin. You are the rock-hardest tomatoes ever. I'm poking around your outsides like a customer in a grocery store looking for a ripe avocado. Are you really begging me to pick you? Your vines are plum bursting with fruit. Abundant, but so green. I clinch my jaw and twist you round a bit, bending the stem, and you finally release from the stem. Another note to self…bring snippers next time. And so I continued picking. I pick so many tomatoes that you filled my basket, one from each vine, intentionally stimulating the vine's other tomatoes to grow. I pick several the size of baseballs, and pray hard. God help me! I feel all a-tangle inside. Still don't know what I am gonna do with you when I got home. Curious and lost, I feel like I had released my grip from the safe mooring of a boulder in a river, and am now randomly floating downstream, vulnerable to its turns and twists. What am I to do? I resolve not to resist, but to go with the flow. Where am I going? Harumph. I guess I'd be cooking those little green monsters in with the rest of the vegetables, okra too. It's high time that I figure out a way to cook okra in a way that I actually like.  I'm gonna have to cook out on the grill when I got home, or the house will get too damned hot for the heat pump air conditioner. I ain't sweating into my own dinner plate. One hundred degrees, harumph. I had wondered how the day was going to play out. Now I know. Fried Green Tomatoes sans the fried part. No batter at all. Doesn't sound too appealing. Grilling in this heat, how distasteful.  I close the garden gate and place the basket in the seat beside me, all the while pondering the vegetables.

Is it too much to believe that the first time I witnessed the chopping of a green tomato was just a couple weeks ago? I knew then and only then just how apple-crispy hard you green tomatoes are. A far cry from your soft delicate texture when you're fully ripened, requiring not just any knife, but a deeply serrated one to slice without squishing you. Once back in the kitchen, I got out that serrated knife and confirmed your texture myself this time. Yup, Granny Smith Apple firm on the outside, and Bosc Pear hard on the inside, As the slicing and chopping and was done, the bite-sized pieces of okra, green beans, sweet potatoes, piled upon each other in the bowl, it still looked funny. I felt my typical nervousness, when expanding the edges of my tried-and-true. This could be a disaster. Have faith, I heard my inner voice coo. Faith can move mountains. But those green tomatoes look like watermelon peel. They're greener than apples. And surely they're sour. I carefully bit into one to check. Yup, sour. God. Harumph. I poured in some coconut oil, and covered all the pieces thoroughly, my hands were as oily as could be. Not to waste a drop, I rubbed the extra on my arms and legs, laughing at the idea of mixing my dried sweat with raw coconut oil.

The grill was ready. I found the wonderful black steel bowl with the large punched out holes all around, the magical bowl that would soon allow the mighty sizzling alchemy to take place. About  half of the pieces fit in the bowl, and I felt grateful that none of my labor would fall into the flame, since the bowl would contain them well. I reserved the other half for a second batch of cooking. The bowl was full up, mostly with tomatoes. My fingers crossed. My hunger increased. Tension was high. I had no back-up plan. The cauldron burned hotter. And hotter. Popping sounds and smoke puffed out of openings and crevices of the simple grill. A sweet smell emerged, what the French might call an odeur,  not to be confused with the English word "odor," as in body odor. Reminded me of the fresh sweetness of recently cut grass. In combination with the fragrance of the charcoal burning, I was brought back to summer picnics (picque-niques) swimming in the lake, a family outing on the 4th of July… Children… Vacation… Relaxation... Fun… Dinner was a-comin'. 

Checking the grill minutes later, everything appeared to have wilted a bit. Skin and meat of the vegetables were covered in their own sweat. Flames lapped at the dripping juices, reaching shoulder-high. Transformation was taking place. A quick stirring, and the sizzling intensified. Shutting the grill cover, it was time to breathe deeply and trust fully. I'd done all I could do. The rest was up to the Elements. I disengaged, attending to the table. Pouring hot black tea half-way up tall glasses, then adding fresh ice cubes to cool it down. A squeeze of lemon lightened the color to amber. Perfect. A glass of wine to celebrate and intensify the relaxation: Merlot for me, Reisling for my Honey. 

A third peeking into the grill allowed for a quick stirring. I spied the lovely blackened appearance and burned look that comes from outdoor grilling. Mmmm. Potatoes were singed and half-crispy. The flames died down to a low tickle, then gave it up to the bright glow of embers. The vegetables loosened with a rough scraping from the pan. Five more minutes with the top down should smoke up the flavor and finish off the taste. The moon rose over the lake.

The table set, the dinner candle lit, we served our plates and said prayers of gratitude for the great abundance that we felt in our hearts. 

The first bite was succulent. Was it an accident? The second was extraordinarily tender. Was it a coincidence? The third bite…Yes, it was a habit. Amazing. Delightful. Memorable. I'd been had. Damn it was good.

Where have you been all my life, grilled green tomatoes? And the okra…What about you? I had no idea I'd like you, too. YOU were the surprise. I hadn't given you a second thought. I've tried to like you, but it's been a difficult relationship. To date, every bite has been a girl scout bite. But Grilled, hey, You are marvelous! It's a two-fer! I've had a real awakening. An enlightenment. What a surprise! Now I know that there's no need to wait till all the tomatoes ripen to red. That Grilled Green Tomatoes are Bliss, that Grilled Okra are Divine. What has happened to me as I flow with this easy current? Bliss I say, pure bliss. And so it is!