As someone who enjoys nearly every kind of cuisine, I’m ashamed to admit that I’m not always a big fan of tomatoes, especially if they are raw.  There are occasions when a perfectly fresh, ripe red tomato in my salad or sandwich is overpoweringly acidic enough to make me remove the offender from my food; at times I revert to childlike behavior and pick them from my tacos or eat around them in salads.

It’s often embarrassing for me at restaurants and when visiting friends’ homes for dinner because I don’t want to leave untouched food on my plate and offend the cook who has put together a meal of balanced, complementary flavors; the sight of a meal with roasted whole or sliced raw tomatoes with salt-and-pepper seasoning have actually put me into minor panic.  The panic returns when I find myself at the farmer’s market, searching for excuses to not accept the juicy slice of heirloom tomato a vendor has just pared off for me; I may want the tomato to cook with, I may want to admire its visual beauty, but there’s no way I want to taste it here, like this—at the same time, I don’t want to seem rude and not eat something that I do have much appreciation for.

It seems almost contradictory for a foodie to have an aversion to tomatoes, let alone to have this aversion while choosing to grow the fruit in her garden, yet here I am.  At least I can be proud to say I haven’t let my palate stop me; through the years I’ve experimented with varieties and recipes, continuing to challenge myself with the tomato, and my taste buds and I have come along in leaps and bounds.  But I hadn’t really conquered my problem until about five years ago when, while shopping for my novice garden, I came across a tomato plant called “Lemon Boy.”

I took a shot and bought one Lemon Boy plant and was in love after eating its first fruit:  this was, at last, the tomato for the person who never really thought  s/he was a “tomato person”—if you’re one of them, I’ll take a chance and say you’re probably like I was and just haven’t yet found the right one; you may want to give these gentle yellow guys a chance.

Lemon Boy.  Golden Bison.  Pear.  Fargo. Brandywine.  Banana Legs.  Cuban Yellow Grape.  Lemon Cherry.  Ildi.  Goldie.  Maynel (“many moons”).  Aunt Gertie’s Gold.  Limmony.  Yellow Oxheart.  Gold Nugget.  Yellow Canary.  Yellow Stuffer.

Much more romantic than the generic description “yellow tomato.”  Here, they sound like names from a fairytale.  Or maybe a Disney movie:  the huntsman cuts out a yellow oxheart and dupes the wicked queen into thinking he killed Snow White; Nemo finds a new friend in Limmony, etc.  Stories can be inspired simply by the names and colors of some yellow tomatoes, but the real enchantment emanates from their appearance and flavors.

The yellow tomato category covers a broad spectrum, ranging from creamy, nearly-white colors to bright, sunny colors, some even closer to orange than yellow.  All of these guys (as well as orange tomatoes) are less acidic and a bit sweeter than a traditional “red” tomato, which I find makes them a lighter  and much more versatile ingredient; in fact, when they’re in season, I only use yellow tomatoes in my recipes.  They can be used in staple savory tomato dishes such as marinara, gazpacho, salsa, etc., but they’re also quite delectable in surprising sweeter combinations:  marmalade, fruit salads and mincemeat, to name a few.

My favorite use of yellow tomatoes is in a simple white grilled cheese sandwich (with some flair).  This recipe is just as easy to make as any grilled cheese, so I won’t waste time telling you how to make a grilled cheese, but here’s what I put into mine (all items to taste): havarti and fontina cheeses; Dr. Wyche’s Yellow or Garden Peach (a bit sweeter than the typical beefsteak yellow, and bearing real peach fuzz!) tomatoes; torn fresh basil leaves; drizzle of leatherwood honey.  Sometimes I add a slice or two of bacon or prosciutto.

As someone who had never been a big tomato fan, I can finally, thoroughly, enjoy tomatoes without being tempted to douse them in other flavors or sauces in order to tame their acidity.  When I cook with yellows I find I am able to cook simpler dishes (salt-and-pepper roasted, for instance) and at last appreciate what—I think—makes the “real” tomato lovers swoon:  their acidity, their sweetness, their versatility; how they crunch and juice; their vibrancy and shine.  I can finally eat raw tomatoes on my salads and enjoy thick slices on sandwiches.  Because of yellow tomatoes, I can honestly say that I am, indeed, a tomato lover, and I can be a proud “foodie” once again.

***

After I started this essay, I noticed yellow tomatoes slowly beginning to creep into the market where I buy our produce; it’s not quite tomato season in Iowa, so I know they’d been shipped in, but all of the writing and fantasizing about yellow tomatoes created an anticipation that was much too difficult to bear:  I purchased a pint of Galina’s [sic] (yellow cherry tomatoes) and headed home to throw together some fresh yellow personal creation, which I named Sun and Pepper Penne.  It’s nothing new, just a simple pasta dish, but it’s quick to make, light and fresh for summer, and can be eaten hot or cold, or at room temperature.  I make it as a main dish, no need for any sides, but it can be served with a salad or as a side to a meat dish.

This recipe—of course—can be used with any kind of tomato, but I hope you’ll consider celebrating yellows with me, especially if you never thought yourself a tomato-fancier before.

Sun and Pepper Penne

Ingredients

Directions

Cook pasta according to package directions; drain and keep warm.

Meanwhile, put oil and garlic into unheated, large sauté pan; turn burner to medium-high and slowly cook garlic in oil until golden (about 3 min.).

Sauté roasted red pepper in garlic and oil 1- 1 ½ min., stirring frequently. Reduce heat to medium-low.

Add cooked pasta and tomatoes to garlic and red pepper; cook and stir 2-3 min., until tomatoes are warmed but not bursting.  Stir in mozzarella, basil, pine nuts, and salt and pepper; toss to mix thoroughly.