Passage I

Finding Tomatoes in Winter

[1] When I was growing up on our farm in North Carolina, my favorite chore was canning tomatoes with my mother. [2] In our one-acre garden, the weight of the tomato plants would slump with ripening fruit, the stems would break, and the pungent smell of late summer would be released. [3] Pleasantly heavy and warm from the sun, I can still imagine the feel of the fruit. [4] That smell told us that it was time to walk the vines and the best of the crop being selected for canning. (4)

We washed the tomatoes in the kitchen while a large pot of water heated up on the stove. (5) When the water came to a boil, we dropped the tomatoes into the pot for exactly one minute, retrieved them, and then plunged them into ice water. This double dunking loosened the skin so we could easily peel it away from the juicy, red pulp.

Next, my mother and I, cored the tomatoes. Then came my favorite part:crushing them into small pieces to fit into the canning jars. I can see myself now, standing in a steamy kitchen, overalls spattered with pulp, sweat dripping from my chin. It was impossible to keep a straight face as seeds squirted through the air and stuck to the walls around us. Sometimes we sang along with the radio, frequently substituting the word tomato for a prominent word in the song. (9) Sometimes the only sound in the kitchen would be the fan, rotating on its' squeaky hinge, sending a breeze our way. Patches of salt forming on our faces and arms as our sweat evaporated into the August air.

Once the chore was finished, the tomatoes would line the pantry shelves alongside spiced peaches and snap beans, all gleaming colorfully in their jars. Together they were our familys' protection against the bleak winter.

Now I live a long way from my family and their farm in North Carolina. In the winter, I savor the fresh supply of the half dozen or so jars of tomatoes Mom sends me every year. On special occasions, I reach for one, twist off the top, and let the smell of summer drift back to me from my childhood. (15)