tomato memories - tanja jakobi (red seas under red skies .TXT) 📗

Tomato memories

The grandma is not with us any more, and for the first time we don’t cook tomato juice.
If it was different, the phone would already rang and the grandma’s impatient and disapproving voice would say: “Tatja-na”, with the special accent on “na” resembling the tone my grandma used when my childish “rat poisons” exploded or when I freshly painted our neighbor’s balcony. Because, in a “proper house”, tomato juice must be cooked on August 20, no matter what.
When the author of this story was a 4-year old child, August 20, use to start with the journey to the largest and the wealthiest green market in Novi Sad known as the Fish market
The proper approach to the tomato juice cooking calls for the serious and slow walk through the whole market, vigorous scanning of the tomato mountains spread all around and curious questions to the sales ladies “and you are from..what did you say…”, and “the tomato is ..say it again…”. The interrogation ends in a purchase of ripe red tomatoes, neither too big nor too small. Than, the grandma hires a guy with the tricycle, adds three to four large watermelons, peaches, grapes, peppers, onions, celery and ..you name it.
At the time I am talking about, my grandpa’s second wife, and my mother’s stepmother is just 40, little younger than I am right now, but we all call her - grandma. I, four year old, with my own special basket, and my grandma with her basket are walking along with the guy on the tricycle.
Uncle David and uncle Bora, two old fashioned, old-timer liftboys, a sign of communist glamour are waiting in front of our building (formerly known as Tanjurdzic’s palace) to help us with the stuff.
And than, everything is set for the madness that will last for exactly two days and one night!
We don’t have a summer kitchen and therefore our central stage is a kitchen in a large apartment, paved with black and white marble tiles, and equipped with the old blue kitchen cupboards, huge old-fashioned stove, a hero of the socialistic efforts, large wooden table and a number of large metal bowls.
In the backstage – which is a large bathroom, bottles are ready to be washed. “Proper bathing” has to be through, and meticulous. After washing, bottles have to be rinsed exactly six times, otherwise, tomato juice won’t be a proper juice.
In the meantime, my mother, my aunt, and the grandma are cutting tomatoes, the stove is at the verge to explode, August is terribly hot, all windows are open, but we just smell and feel boiling tomato juice.
„Proper tomato juice” can be stirred just by the right-handed persons from left to right three times circles, two time “eights”- non-stop.
Tomato is a female business, and male persons have to stay away and eat anywhere else but not in the house. As long the cooking takes place, there would be no eating at all. Because, anything, even the thinnest breadcrumb may spoil the juice.
After it was cooked with the portion of pepper and celery that is a house secret, the tomato has to be hand blended in an old fashion blender, which gives up every now and than. After blending, everything is cooked again to achieve the desired thickness and than placed into bottles, which are ending up in the oven to be properly sterilized and sealed.
If sealing has to be proper than there are two things necessary: double cellophane and numerous (no less than six) elastic rubbers. The bottles are than placed in large wooden baskets, and topped with the big feather blankets.
Morning will tell the truth: if there is thin rosy water at the top of the bottle, the tomato juice is (again) properly made! Now, every bottle has to be washed again and than thoroughly rubbed until it shines. The juice is than transported into the cellar to proudly show off in line with the handmaid marmalades, jellies, salted peppers, and other winter goodies.
If the tomato juice has to be proper, the operation has to be taken systematically with no fooling no matter what. My mother and I made the same juice in our small foursquare matters kitchen many times, always reporting every move to my grandma.
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I am not showing off as a perfect chef, a tomato juice from the nearest supermarket is often in my refrigerator, I rarely wait to slowly brown onion as my grandma ones taught me. But whenever I stir roughly cut onion, I whisper: “in a low hit, stir until it becomes lightly yellow and almost transparent” and I miss my grandma and her proper cooking.
I stir my memories.

Publication Date: 12-25-2009

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Dedication:
to my grandma