August 20, 2003

Fried Green Tomatoes

Playing with his grandson, in the back yard garden of the New Jersey family compound/fortress, the aged Don Corleone carefully peeled an orange. He turned his back to the child and stuck in the rind creating a set of monster teeth. Making an ominous sound he chased the frightened boy through a maze of staked, ripening, tomato vines. The play took a dark turn as Marlon Brando clasped his chest and collapsed knocking down a row of vines.

What a wonderfully poetic end to the criminal mastermind who only wanted to take care of his family. And feed them fresh, juicy, ripe tomatoes grown with his own peasant hands. There was more than dirt under his fingernails. Too much blood on his hands. But a magnificent demise, Sicilian Valhalla. Not to be cut down by a hail of bullets, a fate from which he narrowly escaped. Through some divine grace, keeled over in the tomatoes.

As one of Sicilian/Irish heritage, both sides peasants from islands, with generations of dirt under our fingernails, it is an end that I hope to find when Joe Black comes for me. And to have my ashes scattered in the garden.

There is something about Italians and their gardens. Particularly tomatoes. Once again it is that glorious time of year. Dreamed of and longed for counting the days from Memorial Day, when seedlings are put into the earth, then nurtured and watered through the dog days of summer, to the ripe abundant fruits of mid August through the killing frost. How I scorn those red baseballs they sell in the supermarkets. A curse on them. Malocchio.

But never without pitfalls and anxieties. Too much sun. Too little sun. Too little rain. Not enough rain. Bugs. Critters.

So it is once again that time when artists think about their harvests. The art season may be just moments away. There are last minute details to attend to. The announcements are pouring in, all marked on the busy September calendar. Syllabi and slides to prepare. Meetings to schedule. Investments to agonize over. All just around the corner. But for now. Mange. Oh sweet joy. Tomato time.

Truth is, this year we got a late start. Because of travel in May, and other disruptions, never did get those heirloom seeds from Johnny’s in Maine. So no German Stripes, our favorite, or small yellow pears, and Purple Cherokees or Yellow Brandywines. So we had to settle for the usual generic starters at the greenhouses. Beefstakes, Better Boys, Jet Stars, Cherry. No exotic yellows or stripes. All hybrids.

There was another change. A major shift from city gardening in big buckets. Always tricky. Not quite enough sun in our backyard canyon in Eastie. Particularly, now that the neighbor’s willow tree, which blew down in a hurricane, has regrown and cast us in shadow. And the buckets, hauled from Cambridge ten years ago, are now depleted of nutrients. So our plants this year are weed-infested pygmies and lost causes. Our once glorious backyard in Eastie has reverted to jungle. Because we are now gardening in the Berkshires. Trying to get those perennial beds established in poor and reluctant soil.

During the Spring, fast as Astrid and I planted the perennials and annuals, they were lunch for the family of ground hogs living under our back stairs. I planted some fall decorative kale, and looking out from the deck, an hour later, they were gone. Vanished. Total gonzo. Hundreds of dollars of plants, just lunchmeat.

I sent away for $50 worth of remedies. Poisons, traps, repellents, smoke bombs. I was set to drop the smoke bomb down the gopher hole, till I read the fine print. "Do not use under porches and stairs." Drats. Astrid told me not to do it. Almost burned down the house to get rid of the critters. Friends asked if I every saw, "Caddyshack." Something about gophers and a golf course.

In desperation, I called my college chum, Jim Silin, for many years a farmer in Maine. "Oh man," he said. "Them critters. Shoot em. They’ll eat everything. What they don’t get the deer will."

Our handyman, Jim Cirillo, put in several raised beds in the back yard with fences around them. But late, after Memorial Day. So we lost a couple of weeks getting the seedlings in. We are about two weeks behind the local farm stands which are just getting in their first ripe tomatoes.

Kurt, our lawn guy, was also helpful. He got us a Have a Heart trap. Next week he had caught and released one. His dad shot one. We weren’t around. Then I caught one. A small feller. Threw him in the trunk like a Mafia hit then hauled him off to release in the woods. Hoped that since he was in the trunk, blindfolded so to speak, he wouldn’t find his way back to our yard. Then, when we were away, Kurt bagged another. So now the flowers are doing fine.

Except for the Japanese beetles that is. Man they are wasting everything. They like rose bushes, and Calla Lilies. Particularly the flowers, our pride and joy, in huge pots on the deck. And they love the leaves of the beans down back in the beds. I gather then in my hands and crush them. A daily chore. They keep coming back.

These daily battles I share with Mr. Horn who runs a one-man farm stand just up the road. Go there every day for fresh baby broccoli and whatever else is coming into season. We talk farm talk and family. He lost his wife a couple of years back. We compare aches and pains. There is a wonderful twinkle in his eye. Some days he overcharges me and other days he wants me to have everything for free. He has taken me down to the fields to see his crops. Mostly we talk about the weather and the endless rain.

"Thirteen straight days," he said. "And more on the way. Been hell on my fields. Too wet to get in a tiller. Just killing me."

We were planning a big summer party that weekend. It poured buckets the day before. A washout. There were tons of people invited and they started calling to see if we were still on. Yeah, rain or shine, we said, hoping and praying.

"What time are you having the party," Mr. Horn asked a day or so before. "It will rain in the morning and clear up in the late afternoon. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry." Sure enough, we got the only gorgeous, sunny afternoon in three weekends. The farmer was right on the money.

Right now, we have a ton of tomatoes, egg plants, cucumbers, and beans. Mostly just getting up to speed. The lettuce by now is all dufus. Ditto the ochre and the zucchini that just croaked with some rot. Not that it matters as the farm stands are giving it away along with summer squash. No need to compete as we will know better next year.

But it is a sun thing. Seems our flat beds are next to the woods so we are not getting morning sun. Next year, I need to plant early and get out the chain saw and whack the canopy of sumac. Plus start those heirlooms in Spring. How we miss those incredible German Stripes.

This Labor Day weekend, just as we count the last rays of summer leisure, and plan to hit the ground running with the fall arts season, it is time for our first annual, Tomato Festival. We plan to invite some friends over with the mandate that everyone brings a different tomato dish. Sliced, diced, crushed and mushed.

I am planning a classic Puttanesca sauce. Fresh diced tomatoes, garlic sizzled in olive oil, then anchovies, black Sicilian olives, capers, some fresh mushrooms (my own variation). All combined and quickly heated in a big cast iron skillet. Like any good Putta served fast over linguine in a matter of minutes.