I've had a pretty good tomato year.
I remember when I couldn't bear to cook my homegrown babies. I'd just rather eat them fresh and juicy, in any number of preparations.
This year, though, I've harvested enough tomatoes to cook down for sauce, in addition to the raw sandwich and salad eatin'.
So today, I was roasting what may be the last of my Roma tomatoes (there are still some on the vine, but I have doubts about their willingness to ripen). The house smelled spectacular, as usual, with the aroma of roasting Roma.
And then I thought, no, dog! I'm not running this batch through the food mill.
Cranky dashed down to the store and bought a loaf of rustic bread. We toasted it and applied the appropriate lashings of butter.
Over this, we scooped fresh, hot spoonfuls of roasted, collapsed, sweet, deep, dark tomatoes. Nnnngghh!!
See that brown puddle under the tomato chunks? Kinda syrupy, kinda evil, kinda...
Best sandwich ever.
You could call it bruschetta, but you'd be a dink.