"Picks"

I am one of five children. Dessert was always part of our dinner. We never finished a cake, a pie, or a box of cookies in one meal. This created a problem-who got that last coveted brownie, or slice of Hershey's Deep Dark Chocolate Cake?

My mother solved this problem with a creative solution that we called "picks". The leftover odds and ends were placed on individual plates and brought to the dinner table. Slips of paper were ceremoniously numbered, torn and folded.

There was no cheating, trading or bartering. You chose your slip of paper, and hoped for that #1 pick. #1 chose their dessert first, and on it went. However, it didn't always matter if you were not first. What if what you really desired was that almond cookie, when everyone else wanted the lemon meringue pie? You might get lucky, and your dessert was still available when you reached your pick. Or you might end up with the dry babka that was a parental favorite.

There was no room for argument, or calls of "no fair!". We were all on equal footing, and it made for an interesting end to our family meal. I loved picks.

I'm a Jersey Tomato

I am a food snob-but I mean that in a good way. I am just as happy in a barbecue shack in North Carolina as I am in Le Bernardin. As a matter of fact, to be completely honest, I was not all that impressed with Le Bernardin. It was fish, plain and simple. The old Bouley-now that was impressive. The aroma wafting from the crates of peaches set the scene. The sorbets were heaven. But I digress.

I am from New Jersey. There's nothing like Jersey tomatoes and corn, fresh picked that morning, perched on a table with a box to leave your money. It was that way in my childhood, and I still can put my dollar in the box, although the cigar box has been replaced by plastic. The farmstand where I live now is in front of a field alongside a family home. The grandmother who tends the garden puts out a small sign when the corn is ready for picking. You knock on the back door, and she picks to order. She explained to me that the starch begins its conversion to sugar as soon as it leaves the stalk, so I should put a pot of water on to boil and then come knock on her door.

Jersey tomatoes taste like no other. Salt is a must, and refrigerating them is a sin. My taste buds are now advanced enough to appreciate the difference kosher salt brings to the simple tomato. When you live in New Jersey, you eat local tomatoes and corn from the end of July until September, when the days get cool and the crops are depleted. Every batch of corn is different-yellow, white checkerboard. It's a culinary adventure.

Tomatoes are the same. There are Early Girls to eat first, heirlooms for color and unique flavors, Beefsteaks for burgers, Sweet Hundred cherry tomatoes for my salads. So is there something wrong with bringing your own tomato to a restaurant?

A Caprese Salad depends on a flavorful tomato. The slices of mozzarella , the basil and balsamic vinagrette are important components. Yet the heart of this simple dish relies on the tomato. Hothouse tomatoes just don't do it for me. Here, in my home, I possess the perfect tomato, tended and nurtured by a grandmother down the street. Am I too forward if I decide to byot (bring your own tomato)?

I know that this tomato will not be matched by anything that my restaurateur has to offer. I am ensuring that my Caprese salad will be the best that it can possibly be. The restaurant can save a tomato. I'll bring my own. Am I crazy?

Foodie Love

"When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.”
-Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows"