The chicken recipe gave me the option to substitute canned tomatoes, but I was determined to use my bruised, unattractive, yet fresh supply.
Grabbing a knife, I went to work on the tomatoes. I sliced off the ugly parts and removed the soft spots. In some cases, this surgery meant I ended up with little more than a handful of tomato meat. Still, the yield was impressive: 2 cups of multicolored, juicy fruit that covered spicy chicken breasts.
With the cumin and coriander, this dish had a Moroccan feel. The spices were strong; the tomatoes added juice. Rather than a big, wet goodbye kiss to tomato season, this dish delivered a subtle smooch.
I wanted a bigger, bolder payback for all those hours I spent weeding and watering in the garden.
So the next night, under not exactly balmy conditions, I was out in the backyard, with the grill fired up, ready for the finale, a tomato roast.
As I carried the tomatoes from the counter, a swarm of fruit flies followed. The flies circled the cutting board where I sliced the tomatoes. But when I headed toward the great, cold outdoors, the flies vamoosed. I figured I would not see the likes of them until next summer.
Standing in the dark of the October night, I wore a thick coat as I grilled the last of my summer crop. The tomatoes were a little mushy when they came off the grill. When I tasted their rich roasted flavors, and their fire-scented sweetness, I felt like a proud parent and got mushy as well.
