I dropped over to visit my grandmother one summer afternoon in blistering heat. After the expected hug and kiss and pull of the skin around the belly (yes, she was satisfied that I am eating well), I kindly denied her request to make a sandwich of some cold meats and lettuce. We sat down to an espresso and some biscotti dusted with icing sugar, and we chat for a while, with many questions primed to be sure of her wellbeing, her health and outlook, and of course, to feign interest in her stories about the rascal I was a child for the sake of musing an elderly lady. After a lengthy discussion about the state of affairs of the family, of the world and the government, I excused myself from the table and made leisurely pace to the backyard. My grandmother made little effort to hide her cheeky cackle as she watched me from the kitchen window and followed behind me like a second shadow as I stood filling a plastic bag with the ripest of her garden produce. I reached for a tee-pee shaped structure that was holding many spiral tendrils, still dewy from the morning and the afternoon.
“That’ssa snake beans,” She said gently. My arm was pulled and my body directed to her other thriving plants; zucchini flowers ready for the frying, lemons weighing down their branches as sickly sweet on the air as a mist spray of fairy floss, bitter shoots of off-green endive, crisp iceberg lettuce and an odd variety of vine tomato. “What’s that one, Nonna?” I ask as I tug one of the beastly, fleshy orbs from the stalk and bring it to my nose to breathe in the scent. She takes it from my hand, examines it as a jeweler might inspect the facets of a diamond and brushes the pest-dust from its surface by rubbing it on her apron. “Well, this’ssa one is called the oxheart, very nice in salad with a pinch of salt.”
Needless to say, after one bite my concept of love was completely redefined (no offence, Jasmin).
A friend of mine once told me that in the earliest of days, while the ‘rest of the world’ initially feared the tomato nightshade, believing the plant was the work of the devil and posessing poison as noxious as Hell itself, some humble farmers in Sicily were already celebrating this fragrant and versatile fruit in a myriad of dishes. If not for the (perhaps foolhardy) courage of these ancestors of ours, this vital supplement to many of the world’s signature meals would be missing. And it’s a good thing too, for at an age when I was no taller than the benches beneath the sink – those stored with foodstuffs exotica nearest the stove and pantry – I had grown so accustomed and enarmored by the fruit that it was impossible to stop me for asking for seconds. Long before I knew of the pleasures of fine cheese or the peppery sensation of basil, my experience with the humble tomato was just that: as simple as can be.
It might come as a surprise to you that as opposed to sweets and chocolates, my choice of treat was always the firmest of tomatoes from the fruit bowl, one of the most discerning characteristics with a skin that is still streaked with green, firm to the bite and full of the aroma of sunshine and bearing the weight of soft water and fructose. I’m sure that I put on a display of the waterworks or gave some boyish charm with puppy dog eyes, that she might have felt bemused enough to wash and slice a tomato into quarters, drizzle it with olive oil and give me a small fork to eat them with.
To be fair, it was actually my grandfather who escorted me through the garden and made me wear his outrageously large sandals (that I would not tread dirt through the tiled house later on). With good humour and infinite patience, he explained to me the concept of irrigation (“Why are there these weird ditches next to the plants?”) and oftentimes left me to my own device to seek out the produce that was needed for dinner that evening. Being the summer time season, many manner of fruit was ready in displaying its bounty, from the old mango tree to the weeping lemon and lime trees and of course, in one plot of garden space, the three varieties of tomato that I had never known before. Some of these plants were tort and woody, with a full handful of growth such as the likes of the oxheart variety of tomato (as seen above): a flowery, soft fleshed fruit with a mild taste and aroma, another was sturdy and flexible, with egg-shaped fruit known as the Roma tomato (which often became the base for bottled pasta sauces) and finally, the delicious aroma of the truss tomato that was in greater abundance than the others.
On a typical arranged dinner table, the antipasti would always be placed upon the table first, to whet one’s appetite for the other appetisers and entrees to come. This particular dish stood in a league of its own, as it is left in the refrigerator until it is cool and soft to touch, and when brought out, is placed next to the crusty Vienna-style bread and the hearty, dry pecorino cheese; understandably, it occupies a special place in our hearts when the prospect of making a panini from it crosses our mind like a silver coin. What truly makes this dish a special treat is the careful balance of flavours, from the tartness of the oxheart, the peppery-bitterness of the fresh sweet basil leaves, the light-as-heaven texture of the bocconcini and the finishing touch of a preserved extra virgin olive oil. Of course, without a pinch of salt, a pinch of sugar, a dash of red wine vinegar and a touch of kindly spirit (as grandmothers’ love to add as a sneaky last minute maneouvre), this dish would never have been received into the hall of great taste fame.
All you really need to know is that this recipe has won many hearts and queries by the hungry housemates and continues to the recipient of many questions of intrigue and praise at hosted dinner parties and celebrations! It is well worth your attempt.
It’s important to note that only firm, fresh and slightly under-ripened tomatoes will work a treat. Without the strength and developed flavour of the young tomato, your end product will not be able to hold the same lingering after taste, nor the same longevity in the fridge, nor the absolute desire for seconds! Also, without a good quality bocconcini, the kind that is purchased without commercial packaging from a supermarket, is the only way to go for the quintessential match of good flavours. My experience with supermarket cheeses (of the wet kind, not solid ones such as Parmesan or Romano) is either of two extremes; their excessive preservation techniques by passive and chemical means – whether it be vacuum packing or nitrates – to present to you a cheese in the chiller that ‘looks’ great, but lacks the joie de vivre of its fresh made days. Otherwise, you’ll find a bocconcini product that is drowned in its natural preservation method – brine – that is all water and no substance. Insist in purchasing your tomatoes from your own hand-selection procedure at your local green grocer, and be sure to pick up your cheese only from a continental deli, as these small marts are purveyors of products that are direct from the manufacturer and carry a high turn-over rate, so you know you are getting experienced customer service and good quality produce.
INGREDIENTS (serving 4)
2 firm, plump oxheart tomatoes (truss variety will also work, if more seasonable)
few sprigs of oregano
handful of sweet basil
pinch of salt, pepper, sugar
tablespoon of red wine vinegar
2 garlic cloves, crushed and finely diced
tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
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makes me salivate reading this entry…..lest to say I am totally envious of the wonderful fresh ingredients you can get. Totally agree on the bocconcini, store bought ones are never quite the same as the freshly made ones. A & I are crying inside whenever we have no choice but to get air-flown packets from Parmalat or Santa Lucia (Italian indeed), they are senza sapori. But at least better than nothing :)
I can’t wait to bring you and J to the famous buffalo mozzarella caseificio near where Mamma Rosa’s house. Once you’ve tasted that, I bet you will be a convert just like we are :)