It started out as a small operation.
The location: Hollister, or "Hell-town" as my cousins and I call our home town, located two hours south of San Francisco. My plan was to pick a couple boxes of tomatoes, use my mom's Spremy to press the big red globes into a couple of jars for sauce-making and call it a day.
Hollister is located in the fertile San Benito River valley which supports some of the most productive farmland in the state, much of it certified organic. Throughout the county, you will find fields of lettuce, peppers, garlic, onions, tomatoes, broccoli, celery, cabbage and cauliflower; orchards of walnuts, almonds, apricots and plums, and vineyards of Cabernet, Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Negrette. In total, there are about 40 different crops, but there's one crop that I've always especially fancied and wait expectantly for every year — tomatoes.
My Uncle J is my metaphorical gateway to Hell-town tomatoes. People are fond of Uncle J, they really, really like him. I'm talking about important people, people with tomato husbandry skills. Yeah, people with tomato husbandry skills who might even own or work for certain unmentionable farming operations in one of the most bountiful agricultural areas in the state. Those kind of people.
So I brokered this deal with Uncle J on that Sunday morning just a few hours before I was to head back up to San Francisco: In his truck, he would drive me down to the field where his tomato contacts are. I would come alone. I would bring clean bags or boxes and wear grungy shoes. We would get out of the car and I would pick as many tomatoes as I wanted, provided that they fit in the back of his flatbed. We would exit the field, and on the way out we would both wave to the tractor driver moving pallets. When I got home, I was to share the harvest with my sibs who were also home for the weekend due to a family event.
So this is how it went down, originally. I picked 3 boxes of red tomatoes for sauce and 1 box of hard greens for fermenting. I thought this was it, my work is mostly done.
On my way back to San Francisco, I get a call from my friend Mark who has a sixth sense for food hijackings. He always happens to call or come over just when I've scored a mortadella from my Mom, or fresh almonds from Farmer Ruth or, in this case, boxes of still-warm-from-the-sun, vine-ripened Hollister Red as he calls the variety. Mark remembered the heavenly flavor of last year's crop and he was calling to see if I could "hook him up". I told him that I would share the boxes I had picked with him and our other tomato-obssessed friend, Goldy. When Mark found out that I only had 3 boxes, he decided that he had to go to the source himself...and plunder it. He wanted to make sauce for his entire Kiwani's club; my harvest was "not enough". I knew that he just wanted a big-ass load of sauce for his freezer. He doesn't even belong to the Kiwanis for chrissakes.
The following day, Mark and Goldy went down to Hell-town which would be the day before the tomatoes were to be tilled under. They met Uncle J. at a crossroads and jumped into his truck. An intelligence error had occurred because, as they picked, they spotted the rototiller just 10 rows ahead of them, a day early. This sighting of the rototiller inspired quick picking. Within 45 minutes, they were able to free some 300 pounds of tomatoes from their certain death and load them into the escape vehicle.
On the way home Mark and Goldy
called and warned me to get the Spremy ready. The next day starting at 4pm, we pressed 300 pounds of tomatoes into the most luscious, evenly textured, seedless/peel-free puree.* The Spremy, an imported Italian electric tomato press that I borrowed from my mom, allowed us to set up our own mini cannery. It worked like magic.
It took us 2 hours just to set up the operation. Goldy, a set designer/art director for feature films who can build anything, fashioned a shunting device out of foil for the waste matter so that it fell directly into a compost bin.
The ever resourceful Mark created a washing station from plastic bread racks where our tomatoes were hosed and dried. Our friend Clare cored and cut tomatoes while Goldy and I rammed the tomatoes down the neck of the Spremy.
Respite from the loud, burly motor came only when we had to turn the machine off to transfer the puree into the jars. Mark plied us with wine while friends arrived to marvel at our stupidity and nourish us with home made goodies including a french onion soup from Michelle S. that blew our socks off. Extra takeaways of sauce for her, please.
At about 8:30pm, Mark recorded a message on the "tomato hotline" (my home phone) telling our friends how much sauce was available for
the taking. Since the puree is highly perishable and we couldn't store it all, they had to show up that night if they wanted to share in the fruits of our labor. And they came with empty containers in hand.
All in all, it was a fun, communal experience...that I won't be doing again. At least for another year.
Pasta dinner at my house — who's in??
*One of the by-products of the tomato pressing is tomato water or juice. We made gallons. And oh boy did it make a lovely Bloody Mary at a party a few days later.
Tomorrow's post will include info on where to buy your own Spremy, the rockingest tomato press available west of the boot.