foodperson.com

As if the briefer hours of daylight and declining temperatures weren’t signs enough, the solitary tomato on my window sill told me: summer is at an end.

The last tomato?

I took it from the sill, washed it and sliced it in half.

The tomato, halved

Its brilliant color and succulence gleamed. I halved the halfs. I trimmed the bits of hard core, and laid it open.

I took one bite then another and savored it, unadorned. Then I topped the rest with a handful of mesclun, a drizzle of vinaigrette and ate. It was heaven.

I’ll miss the summer tomatoes. Kansas, known for its wheat, produces sensational tomatoes. The other evening, my weightlifting teacher told a story about trying to give away a large bowlful of cherry tomatoes in Wyoming to fellow backpackers just before he and his wife headed into the wilderness. (They’d eaten all of the home-grown bounty they could and knew the tomatoes would rot before their return.)

The other hikers initially declined, except for one who politely sampled a couple. When the Kansan turned to leave, the one allowed as how he might like a handful. Others took the hint, and in a flash the tomatoes were gone. Such are the best of Kansas tomatoes.

There will surely be a few tomatoes yet in the farmers market or CSA bag, but the stunning flavor that develops on the vine in the heat and the good soil won’t be there. Farewell, marvelous tomato. Farewell, summer.