The Tenth Muse

I recently read The Tenth Muse by Judith Jones, the editor for an array of cookbook and food writers, most famously Julia Childs. She worked with James Beard, Edna Lewis. She was friends with M.F.K. Fisher. And her own voice is quietly confident on the page. The woman knows food.

There is one particular passage that I dog earred in order that I could share it here. It's something I attempted to say a few weeks ago and that Judith Jones summed up in one sentence.

I certainly learned, as I made one inspired dish after another, how, when the seasons dictate what goes together, flavors and colors and textures play off each other and create a natural harmony that is always naturally delicious.

That is exactly what I was trying to say.

Which brings me to something that has been bothering me. A small thing really; it's the strawberries and tomatoes on the market. It's lovely to see bright red fruit after months of primarily green everything but somehow the red fruit seems wrong. Even in California. Okay, Northern California.

The insides of my chest pucker when I see the summer crops laid out across folding tables with my jacket zipped choking to my chin. Where did these fruits get the warmth to be big and red? In my backyard the dogwood has yet to bloom and I can't imagine cultivating a full grown tomato or strawberry through these last months of winter.

Last Sunday I bought Watsonville strawberries because my desire for citrus was waning and it was Easter. I stood in the front row next to the table loaded with fruit and I took a bite of the first fresh berry since last year with the memory of summer strawberries past ready to dance on my tongue. I expected a symphony or stand up reggae.

I got a junior high marching band practicing for the homecoming game. The strawberry had potential, it had notes that imitated summer but it was juvenile, filled out but unsure of itself. It didn't have its full strawberryness.

I eyed the tomatoes suspiciously. They were too perfect, too uniform. They looked like Hollywood plastic, painted smiles. If they wore shoes they would have fake stones and lucite clear heels. And what would they go with? Tomatoes and kale wouldn't pass even my liberal views of food diversity. Tomatoes and brussel sprouts? Tomatoes and carrots? With asparagus? I don't think so.

I'll wait until the season catches up with them. I'll wait until the tomatoes have had a chance to be seasoned with spring showers, to reach for the first ray of morning sun and to collect the still heat of long and hot afternoons. And then I'll be first in line.

The true taste will be worth the wait and the natural harmony that Judith Jones describes will happen. In the meantime I'll happily stick to citrus and greens.