The Last Tomatoes

Though we've had a slow, warm, La Nina fall, this weekend I finally pulled up the tomato vines. After a couple of nights of below freezing temperatures one must accept there really will be be no more tomatoes this year. Everything went into the compost heap: withered stalks, green tomatoes and all. Green tomatoes that have frozen develop an odd translucency and squishy texture when they thaw.

Meanwhile, the kitchen table was covered with a pile of tomatoes, from dark green and full of tomatine to the almost chartreuse they become just before morphing into pale yellow and then red. A row of tomatoes sat ripening on the windowsill. I'd already made and put up various kinds of salsa and sauce, some canned, some (without the vinegar or lemon juice) frozen. But there were all those green tomatoes.

My friend the British historian had recently given me a book of preserves from the British Women's Institute and in it was a recipe for green tomato and apple chutney, one of those recipes that must be simmered for three hours, a perfect project for a chilly, gray Sunday afternoon. So I converted the measurements and set out to can. I used the chartreuse and yellowish tomatoes for the job, and culled the really dark green ones for the compost heap. The rest, as they ripen, will go into salads or soups--and that, alas, will be the end of fresh tomatoes for the year.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Note: I had always thought green tomatoes were full of solanine, since they are in the nightshade family, and had been told that tomato foliage and green tomatoes are poisonous--eat too many and nausea will ensue. But it turns out that they are not so dangerous after all, according to NY Times food writer Harold McGee. You can read his most interesting article here, "Accused, Yes, but Probably Not a Killer."

Related Posts:
All Kinds of Nightshade
Walking through a Cornfield in Norfolk