In late September, as cool weather creeps in, I become aware that the waning moments of summer tomatoes are imminent. I hunger for a last bit of lusciousness that only food in its season can convey. I pick out some “real” tomatoes at the farmer’s market to savor the perfect, simple way I learned from my friend Anthony Giglio, and to preserve for winter enjoyment. And I read Pablo Neruda’s ode.
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