“Tomato Tarte Tatin?” Sophie questioned, and not in her customary soft-toned whisper as she glanced over Tom’s notes for this evening’s celebratory dinner with her parents. No, her voice’s timbre was more of a holler, to be heard over the relentless murmur of the kitchen’s stand mixer busily whirring away as her husband gradually added ice-cold water to the bowl. “Surely a Tarte Tatin is a dessert. Tomatoes are a vegetable?”
“The farmers’ market had a glut of some interesting heirloom varieties this morning. You don’t see them very often, and they’ve a shorter season that’s ending soon. Besides, they don’t store well, so the stall slashed their prices to clear them out.”
“And you can’t resist a bargain.” She interjected.
“You know me,” and in riposte to her mildly sarcastic tone, “by the way, they’re a fruit from the nightshade family.”
“Yeah, right? Next you’ll be telling me the same goes for a cucumber,” but before Tom could confirm this to be the case, she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, you know I love your cooking, but my father’s old-school. A meat and potatoes man. He’ll find fault in anything fancy. Last year, it was a hair in the Vichyssoise you made for the first course. It was grey. I’m pretty sure it was his own. Guaranteed, he’ll poke fun at you. I can see it now, something about a man’s place being in his workshop, not the kitchen. Tonight, let’s not supply the ammunition. I don’t want the dining table to become a battleground. By all means, use your fancy tomatoes. Maybe in a side salad, but please, please could you make something else for the starter? Perhaps a terrine? You can still show off your skills, and here’s an idea. You could pass it off as a cold meatloaf.”
“Come on Sophie, you can plead all you like. Look, the kitchen’s my domain. But hang on for a minute. How about this for a solution? I could use the deadly variety of nightshade for your father’s serving. That would put an end to his carping.”
“The farmers’ market had a glut of some interesting heirloom varieties this morning. You don’t see them very often, and they’ve a shorter season that’s ending soon. Besides, they don’t store well, so the stall slashed their prices to clear them out.”
“And you can’t resist a bargain.” She interjected.
“You know me,” and in riposte to her mildly sarcastic tone, “by the way, they’re a fruit from the nightshade family.”
“Yeah, right? Next you’ll be telling me the same goes for a cucumber,” but before Tom could confirm this to be the case, she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, you know I love your cooking, but my father’s old-school. A meat and potatoes man. He’ll find fault in anything fancy. Last year, it was a hair in the Vichyssoise you made for the first course. It was grey. I’m pretty sure it was his own. Guaranteed, he’ll poke fun at you. I can see it now, something about a man’s place being in his workshop, not the kitchen. Tonight, let’s not supply the ammunition. I don’t want the dining table to become a battleground. By all means, use your fancy tomatoes. Maybe in a side salad, but please, please could you make something else for the starter? Perhaps a terrine? You can still show off your skills, and here’s an idea. You could pass it off as a cold meatloaf.”
“Come on Sophie, you can plead all you like. Look, the kitchen’s my domain. But hang on for a minute. How about this for a solution? I could use the deadly variety of nightshade for your father’s serving. That would put an end to his carping.”
