Tomato Day in the City

Two years ago, when my husband Peter and I decided to move from the country to the city, we knew we would have to give up a few things. Tomato Day was one of them.

Every September authentic Italian households celebrate Tomato Day. The family gathers together to wash, chop, and preserve tomatoes, the main ingredient of the pasta sauce for Sunday lunch. Peter and I hosted this important event every September for many years. It requires a lot of space: a large garage and driveway for preparing the tomatoes, a back yard where a bonfire is set up to cook the 100 plus jars in a barrel, and a big cantina in the basement to hold all the jars until the tomatoes are eaten.

When we decided to move to the city we knew that a small house in a subdivision would not be a suitable tomato house. And, to be honest, we aren’t getting any younger and Tomato Day is a Lot of work! We canvassed our kids, all the ones who eat these jarred tomatoes, to see if anybody would like to take over the role of host. Last year we were SOL, but this year, after some arm-twisting, we got a taker! Daniel said yes to Tomato Day. He had even done some research and found a way to preserve the tomatoes without a huge back yard bonfire, something he learned is illegal in the city.

On the morning of Tomato Day Peter and I tried not to look too gleeful as we loaded up the car with supplies. We made an easy trip across the city on a deserted expressway. Apparently all the other Tomato Day workers were still sleeping. When we arrived at Daniel’s place, he was already setting up tables, and our grandson Ben, was dying to get started. Actually what he really wanted was to eat pasta, his favourite meal, and he knew we had to make the tomato sauce first. “Hurry up, Nonno!” he cried.

The other “staff members” arrived and the morning progressed as usual: washing, chopping, grinding, stirring and finally putting the tomato sauce into the jars. We rotated through the jobs so nobody would get too bored or too stiff from doing the same thing over and over again. But there was also a lot of talking, sharing family news, discussing politics, and remarking on our current situation. Here we were, using our university education to stuff tomatoes into jars and squirt seeds at each other.

After a few hours lunch arrived, ordered from a restaurant because the cooks were all too busy processing the tomatoes. Ben recoiled in horror as he surveyed the food. “Where is my pasta?’ he demanded. He was not impressed with the way things were going. But the situation improved when a cake arrived for dessert. It was the birthday of one of the “staff” and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to celebrate. Ben was OK with that.

Next came the cleaning up. The big pots, tubs, grinder, and utensils, all covered with tomato gunk, had to be washed and rinsed in the driveway; this was too big a job for the kitchen. Soon the driveway was running bright red as the dish water rushed towards the drain in the road. The “staff” were quite a sight with our faces and clothes all splattered with tomato bits. But not a singe passer-by asked about a possible murder or threatened to call the police to search for a body.

Finally it was time to say good bye. This farewell was sad. Not only was Tomato Day over for another year, but the grandchildren would be heading back to school in a couple of days. When that happened, our family bubble would be dissolved and social distancing would once again be in effect. We gave everybody extra hugs, not knowing when we’d be able to do it again.

Sue