The day has arrived. Christmas, my birthday, Arbor Day, these are but pale phantoms against the most important day of the year, BLT Day.
Like Easter, you're never really sure when it is going to arrive. Not because the observance relies on some arcane medieval formula involving the full moon and goat entrails, but because it all depends on that first ripe tomato.
Tomatoes. Some of you get it, and some don't. Some things are just that way, but for those of you that do get it, keep reading. Today is July 11th, and I haven't had a tomato since October. I gave up on supermarket tomatoes 6 or 7 years ago, they fooled me back then with those "vine-ripened" one that still had a piece of the vine attached. They smell like tomatoes but, brother, those ain't tomatoes. Soggy cardboard mush with a vine attached is still soggy cardboard mush.
But back to the topic, today I will walk up to the garden and collect that scarlet orb that I have been monitoring for the past few days. I will cleave it into fat, luscious slices and place them gently atop lightly toasted 7-grain bread, liberally anointed with mayo. Then, 3 or 4 slices of pasture-raised bacon from last year's pig. A pig I knew by name and whose life I oversaw from the time she was a 30lb shoat until she arrived back at the farm in double-smoked glory. A few leaves of Buttercrunch lettuce to satisfy the requirements, another slice of toast, and the sandwich will be complete.
Then, my friends, it is time to eat. The BLT is a celebration of texture. The light initial resistance of the toasted bread giving way to the hearty crunch of the lettuce, the bacon offering its toothsome dual-densities of fat and flesh, the lush juicy tomato, all these underscored with unctuous mayonnaise. This is a sandwich like no other. A tall, cold glass of milk is the only accompaniment needed.
BLT Day. It's finally here. What are you having for lunch?
