This week marked the beginning of Gazpacho season in my household small apartment and with that comes a warmth in my heart that I have a feeling, should last all season. I know, that seems an odd thing to get from a chilled soup, but hear me out.
I come from a small town where tomatoes are nearly a religion. Maybe a very young blogger wrote about it once, here. This love was deeply rooted and followed my to Barcelona, where I was thrilled to find their version of a tomato sandwich greeting me at every little tapas bar I found myself within. Pero sin tampoco olvidar el pa amb tomaquet. This Catalan quote above translates to “And we must never forget the tomato bread”. I feel you, Catalunya.
In Madrid, a block from my apartment, there was a Gazpacheria with a 24-hour vending machine out front, so I never had to be without tomatoes in their purest and pureed form. When my travels led me south to Sevilla, I fell in love with their thick, garlicky version of gazpacho, the salmorejo.
The tomato that I loved from the sandy soils of Hanover County had transformed, evolved, refined.
And reading my painfully unripe words today from what feels like a lifetime ago made me so appreciative that I’m not still sitting in a small town outside of Richmond, but also, that I never feel too far from my roots.
Now I’m just a little tomato in the Big Apple, trying to find and then show you the way. Come with me, won’t you?
Just um, you know.. don’t squeeze me to tight.
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