Tomatoes on Toast

There are two weeks in August, sometimes three if the weather holds, when the tomatoes at the market smell the way tomatoes are supposed to smell. You pick one up and the scent hits you before you've even turned it over. Sweet, warm, slightly sharp, like summer itself concentrating into a single piece of fruit. That's when you make this. Not before.

It isn't a recipe, really. It's tomatoes, butter, toast, pepper. The kind of thing you throw together at the end of a long, warm day when the kitchen is still bright at eight o'clock and you can't be bothered with anything more than this. But the thing is, when the tomatoes are right, you don't need anything more than this. The butter goes sweet and orange from the juices. The toast soaks it up. The pepper cuts through. It tastes like exactly what it is, and that's enough.

I've written it in the notebook more than once. The entry is always the same: tomatoes, butter, toast, Tuesday. Sometimes I add the weather. It's the kind of meal that only works if you don't overthink it. We're only making dinner.