I’m not much of a cook. I don’t know anything about canning, poaching, or pickling. I have mixed up my sugar and salt, my tablespoons and teaspoons. I have even burned soup. The thing is, despite all my troubles at the stove, I really, really, like to eat. No, love to eat. If I could take a bath in a big tub of eating, I would.

I’m lucky to have a husband who not only likes to cook but also excels at it, and practice has slowly improved my non-existent skills to passable in the kitchen. Delicious, I am always saying when my husband asks what to make for dinner. Something delicious. For me, it is this deliciousness that brackets time and sustains memory. A something delicious is a necessary bookend to all other experiences. Plus it makes life so much more, well, sensuous. And what could be more sensuous than the tomato?

For a long time, I was afraid of the tomato and woefully afraid of food (and the sensuous). I wanted my tomato in ketchup or pizza sauce or not at all, and even then, I wasn’t always sold. I still prefer mustard to ketchup and I would only eat pizza by scraping everything off the crust, including the sauce. I remember a time in middle school when my friend Amanda Wicker brought a tomato to our middle school lunch cafeteria. She sat down at the long table and bit into it like an apple. I was amazed. You can do that? I asked. I couldn’t watch.

Years later, in college, a stomach problem meant I had to stop eating acidic food for a while, no oranges, no lemon juice, and definitely no tomatoes. I ate a lot of toast, a lot of rice. I didn’t eat real food for years, slowly re-introducing my body to the delicious one item a time. It was during this reintroduction that I fell in love with tomatoes, quite by accident, though I’m particular. I don’t want old, tired tomatoes, or unripe ones that crunch under the knife. It is the tomatoes from my backyard garden that taste like sun and rain and mystery and make me grateful for the act of eating, for the invention of deliciousness. And talk about sensual!

Recently, I returned from a brief trip to San Francisco, where deliciousness isn’t so much a desire but a way of life. The trip was a demanding one, a visit with my in-laws that didn’t go as well as anyone involved would’ve liked. We share a heavy, difficult history, with plenty of fault to share around. On this trip, as old wounds proved raw and new ones were exposed, our shared experience of delicious meals, of sensuous ingredients, created room for reconciliation.

We continue to struggle, but the connection between food, memory, and feeling has given us the opportunity to grow. I remember what I ate our first night in town (spinach risotto with sundried tomatoes—don’t you just love sundried tomatoes? The sweet-salty tomato that is nearly too intense to bear? Sundried tomatoes always make me think of love and the lengthening of summer), as well as our final meal together. Worn out and disappointed with the visit and each other, we ate at Bridges Restaurant, which appears in the final scenes of Mrs. Doubtfire. I ordered the night’s special, sea bass over mushroom risotto, surrounded by delicate cherry tomatoes in balsamic vinegar. It was the kind of meal, the kind of tomatoes, that will make you believe. Past the swirl of emotion and hurt, tomatoes and vinegar gave me something to grab onto, grounding me in a way that melted into healing.

After all, there is something about the gleam on a tomato that promises hope in a way you can actually taste. Its very ancientness suggests permanence and renewal, that yes, we will move on, we will go through, we will suffer loss, pain, and illness, but there will still be something delicious on the other side.

My husband and I have been home for a several weeks now, and we’re currently in the midst of other challenges. We will move a few states away in less than a month. While I’m excited for new opportunities, I’m devastated to leave my current home, friends, and garden. We choose not to grow tomatoes this year, as it would be too hard to leave them behind, but the garden had other plans. Early in the summer, we noticed a lone tomato plant rising near a patch of thyme and oregano, and I want to believe this is a sign. That as I prepare to leave, the tomatoes from this determined plant mark my summer and ensure that I will remember everything I need to remember. It feels like a gift. A fitting, tender bookend.

I was inspired to find the recipe I’m sharing here by the Bridges Restaurant and their incredible tomato garnish. While I might be timid in the kitchen, once I eat something that changes me, I want to try it at home for that something delicious. Shortly after we returned for our trip, I googled “tomatoes” and “balsamic vinegar” and found this very simple, sensuous recipe on eHow.com under “How to Make Summer Tomato and Red Onion Salad.” Uncluttered and confident, it will make you believe, too.

Ingredients:

Instructions:

1. Cut tomatoes in comfortable, bit-sized pieces, quarters, eighths, halves, depending on the tomatoes, and place in a large mixing bowl.
2. Peel and core the onion. Slice it into very, very thin strips. As thin as you can! Add to tomatoes.
3. Cut basil leaves into thin strips and add to bowl.
4. Drizzle the olive oil and vinegar over the salad, season with salt and pepper, and toss well.

Note: This salad is best if it has time to marinate for about an hour before serving, though this isn’t necessary. If you have lower quality tomatoes, marinate longer.