We got the first batch of them last weekend, and they were perfect. Red, round and luscious. Lined up in a shallow, plastic crate, they’d been placed on a sheet of old newspaper, and my mouth watered at the sight of them.
“Oh! Where did you get them?” I asked my mother, who brought them home after work one day.
She told me the answer, but honestly, I wasn’t listening. My mind was racing ahead to the other supplies we’d need: mayonnaise, bread and bacon. My salty summer beloved has finally returned to me – the iconic bacon and tomato sandwich.
For all the purists out there, I do realize I’ve left the “L” out of the traditional BLT sandwich, but I don’t care. Lately, lettuce has had some seriously bad PR, and I’m not risking what news reports call “explosive diarrhea” just to get a little green on my plate. Besides that, I think the sandwich is better without lettuce, which only gets in the way of the magical marriage between bacon and tomato.
Technically speaking, I could have a bacon and tomato sandwich at any time. They sell all the ingredients year-round. But those pinkish imposters at the grocery store can’t hold a candle to a true garden tomato at a local farmer’s market. Radiantly red garden tomatoes burst onto the scene in early July, like flavorful fireworks ready to put on a mouth-watering show.
My mother fried the bacon extra crispy while I slathered the bread slices with mayonnaise. We each arrange our tomato slices and bacon on the bread because sandwich construction is a personal thing. I place the elements with great care so that each bite will have its share of bacon and tomato. Then I grab the saltshaker and give it a generous sprinkle. I top it off with that second layer of mayo-smeared bread, and then I’m ready.
With paper plate in hand, I rush my first sandwich of the summer over to the kitchen table and settle in. A tall glass of my mother’s syrupy sweet tea sits at the ready on my right. Napkin in lap? Check. This juicy sucker is going to drip all over the place, just as it should.
Open. Bite. Crunch. Sigh…
I’m lost in the reverie of this most perfect of all sandwiches. In the moment, I don’t care about the implications of the calories, the salt, or the mayo. I don’t even dwell on the artery-hardening evils of bacon. I love bacon! We’re summertime buddies! As the bite falls apart in my mouth, I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t worth dying for anyway.
All you bacon-hating health harpies can save yourself the trouble of writing me a strongly worded email. Starting July 1st and running throughout tomato season, I cannot be reasoned with, regardless of your very valid points. I’m a bacon and tomato junkie waiting for her next fix. If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
The last few bites of my first sandwich begin to disintegrate in my hands, as the mayo and the juice from the tomatoes soak through the soft bread. That’s okay because I’m not above licking the remnants off my fingers. We’re all family here, and I know I’m among fellow bacon and tomato junkies. I feel no shame, only satisfaction.
I wash down that last bite with a gulp of sweet tea, and my eyes roll back in my head a little as I relive the last bite.
“There’s enough bacon left for a second sandwich,” my mother says. “Want another one?”
My eyes pop back open and I’m already reaching for the loaf of bread.
The summer is short, my friends. Pass those garden tomatoes.
Gwen Rockwood is a freelance syndicated columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her books are available on Amazon.