The other day I was meandering down back roads when I came upon a small farm stand at the edge of a sun bleached lawn. There were only a few items for sale on the table—half-pint containers of small country blueberries; fuzzy raspberries; a pile of basil bolting with tiny blue flowers and tangled up with rosemary spears; some beans; and spinach and radishes still dusty from being picked that morning. Black-eyed Susans grow wild around here and bouquets of them were jammed into a beat-up five-gallon Home Depot orange bucket. Next to them was a bushel basket of tomatoes and another of corn. Their full glory won’t emerge for another week and a half so I suppose you could say the farmer was offering them as coming attractions. Still, they were a sight for sore taste buds. I bought six of each, placed my eight dollars in the honor box and carefully drove them home. The night’s dinner consisted of barely boiled corn on the cob and two thick tomato slices sprinkled with salt and chopped basil arranged on two slices of gently smashed together white bread.
A word about tomato sandwiches: Tradition insists on white bread. A good quality white bread but, nonetheless, white. The only reason I can think for this is that you don’t want another taste getting in the way of the sandwich’s most important flavors. Constructed in the height of tomato season, I can’t imagine how this is possible. You can argue with me about white bread—maybe it’s a Northeast or specifically Philadelphia thing. But whatever bread you choose, you must gently press the slices together. There are two reasons for this: the ingredients blend together and the soft bread sops up every bit of juice. In any case, this was how I was taught to make a tomato sandwich. It doesn’t really matter. However it is constructed a summer tomato sandwich makes the world just a little more enjoyable.
I never got to visit the vegetable stand of my dreams—Miss Ruby’s Produce & Art Gallery, in Bealsville, Florida. Miss Ruby was the kind of woman who makes you believe that life, no matter how ornery, is worth the price of admission. Everything was on display in her stand—vegetables, fruits and most especially the stacks of her paintings leaning every which way together. Miss Ruby died at the age of 94 in 2022.
If you never met Miss Ruby or saw her art, please spend time getting to know her now. She’d like nothing better than to share with you her deep love of just about everything and everyone. And don’t we need bushels of that these days!
“My life is to look up and reach up and take somebody with me. No matter what, make someone else happy. I think that's what art does.”—Miss Ruby C. Williams.
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Thanks a bunch!
I do love your stories, Pat!
This was delightful, Pat! 🍅 🥪