Kvasheni Pomidory (квашені помідори, fermented tomatoes)

Whole tomatoes go into the brine tight-skinned and proud, then three weeks later they hiss when you open the jar. The first bite is sour, salty, spritzy, almost rude. Good. A vinegar pickle sits still. Kvasheni pomidory are alive.

This is the southern steppe speaking: hot gardens, too many tomatoes, dill gone to flower, garlic under the nails, the litnya kuhnia, the summer kitchen, working from May until October. We fermented because summer is generous and winter is long. Whole watermelons, stuffed aubergines, tomatoes by the jarful. In August we'd be drowning in them; in January we open a jar instead.

The dish rests on one thing: five percent salt, weighed against the water. After that, your job is mostly to keep the tomatoes under the brine and listen. Aunt Nadia wrote, "until it sounds right," and here that means cloudy brine, little bubbles clinging to the skins, a soft sigh when the lid opens. If one tomato floats above the surface, push it down or take it out. Everything under the brine is doing exactly what it should.