There are tomato-phobes, and there are tomato-philes, and I am firmly in the latter camp. Opposed are several nephews who religiously shun fresh tomatoes whenever offered, and class them equally with liver, and with mushrooms (a small pile of rubbery fragments accumulating plateside while they perform their forensic investigation of omelettes) as Foods To Be Avoided.

Whereas I will joyfully guzzle a tomato (or three!) without an instant’s hesitation. A peak summer moment is to insinuate a hand among the leaves on a tomato plant, inhaling the signature tomato-leaf perfume which wafts up as you rub against the velvet fuzz, and pluck a perfect, sun-warm tomato from the vine. Nip an opening in the smooth, red skin, and suck out the first juicy seeds. Heaven!

J & I dropped in last week on the Tomato Festival at the East Vancouver Farmers Market. A low-key affair: there were no tomato-fights, no cooking demonstrations, and no free samples. But most of the vendors had a selection of heirloom tomatoes for sale, a chance to bust out of my Beafsteak and Sweet 100s rut.

I confess: for me “tomato” has forever implied “Red!”, and the archetypal tomato taste has always been that mildly acidic tang which sets my salivary juices flowing. Despite several brave attempts, I’ve never really taken to those upstart yellow variants, with their buttery smoothness, and their genre-bending, post-modern sunniness.

But somehow, this time I got caught up in all the Festival hoopla, and J & I indulged ourselves in palette of tomato oddities: a pair of mysterious Black Krims, a small bag of Aunt Molly’s, some Black Russians, a single convoluted Costoluto Fiorentine, and the prize catch: a stunning Cherokee Purple.

So every night last week we had heirloom tomato salad. If you’re going to adorn a fresh tomato in any way at all, here’s my recommended path to true tomato bliss:

Tomato Salad

Take 1 firm, ripe tomato per supplicant. Each tomato should generously fill a cupped palm, should still hold the sun’s warmth. Hold it to your nose; inhale: it may still carry with it a faint whiff of the garden.

Place the tomato on its side upon a cutting board. It will tend to roll as if seeking some escape: secure it tenderly with your fingertips. Murmur assurances that the coming self-sacrifice is what it was intended for, that you represent the culmination of its career. Take a long-bladed knife with a sharp, scalloped blade and gently slice each tomato into generously-thick slabs. Note approvingly how each slice gleams with fresh juices. Savour the moist “slap” as each slab topples against its predecessor. Salivate in anticipation.

Pave the bottom of a small plate with these slick and glistening rounds. With careful packing you should be able to fit six generous slices around one more in the plate’s centre. Slip any remaining pieces — the tomato’s convex bottom, the concave top — thoughtfully between your lips. Lick fingers.

A light sprinkling of salt.

In anticipation of this moment you will already have procured a chunk of creamy, sheep’s milk feta, which you should now crumble over the tomato-paved plate, to be followed by a generous scissoring of fresh basil leaves, extracted from the garden. Pause to admire the mix of colours, and remark to anyone within hearing that this must have been what inspired the Italian flag.

Reach for the olive oil, and, deploying your best Jackson Pollock impersonation, drizzle the golden nectar over all. Do not stint.

A brief cracking of peppercorns.

Consume with gusto, with reverence, and with keen attention. Remember that your memories of this moment must last you through the three full seasons which now lie between you and next summer…