A British BLT

There's a week in late July when the tomatoes at the market are finally warm and heavy and smell the way tomatoes are supposed to smell. That's when you make this. Not before. A BLT made with a tomato that isn't ripe is a bacon sandwich with a passenger, and the tomato deserves better than that.

The British version is not the American one. No streaky bacon, no mayonnaise, no iceberg. Back bacon, the proper sort, dry-cured and cooked until the fat goes golden and glassy. Real butter on toast that's been done thoroughly, not the pale, apologetic kind that folds when you look at it. Little gem lettuce for crunch. And a tomato that you chose at the market with your hands, pressing gently, smelling the stem end, knowing it was ready.

I don't know why this sandwich feels like more than the sum of its parts. Three ingredients on toast. But when all three are right, when the bacon is crisp and the tomato is warm from the sun and the butter has melted into every corner of the bread, it's one of the better things you can eat in summer. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: BLT. Tomatoes from Jim's stall. Tuesday. Standing at the kitchen window. It didn't need more than that.

We're only making a sandwich. But a sandwich made with attention, with ingredients that are ready and deserve to be eaten today, is a meal worth sitting down for. Or standing up for. Your kitchen, your rules.