The last tomato is an annual rite of passage for me. The calendar told me that autumn had begun officially more than two weeks earlier. Yet summer for me endured as long as my last tomato stood lonely vigil on the withering vine. Cherubic and scarlet as a Caribbean sunset, the tiny final homage to the autumnal equinox held out promise for one more chance to delight me with its simple acidic goodness.
Read how this turns out here.