Tomatillo, Gooseberry, Persimmon and Tomato Salad

imagesThe original name for tomatillo is tomate (in Nahuatl, tomātl, ‘fat thing’). When Aztecs started to cultivate a similar but bigger red fruit, they called the new species jitomate (‘fat thing with navel’).

You can see why they referred to a navel even today when you look at snarled navels of “heirloom” tomato varieties. In Aztec mythology the navel was the original link to life, what was left after the umbilical cord dropped off.

They had similar thoughts about corn silk, which ran back to the living root in multifarious, variegated ways. So maybe some fresh kernels of corn could be scattered over the top of this salad as a garnish.

Tomatillos are related to gooseberries, obvious when you see them side-by-side. The connection to persimmons is a stretch. They do make quite a combo when their flavors are matched. Both also contain more pectin than your average fruit.

This is a speculative dish, since the chances of having all these fruit lying around at once are slim.

So we are free to imagine any salad dressing which might enter our mind.

***
Thanks to Richard Haly for the Nahuatl background.

Idols

As we lay enlaced before
a window which gave to a grove
of olives (two bare seeds
within a fruit summer burst open,
infused with heat), we had no
memories. We were the memory
we now have. We were icons
of ourselves to be revered
by true believers of afterwards.

After Gabriel Ferrater

Aleshores, quan jèiem
abraçats davant la finestra
oberta al pendís d’oliveres (dues
llavors nues dins un fruit que l’estiu
ha badat violent, i que s’omple
d’aire) no teníem records. Érem
el record que tenim ara. Érem
aquesta imatge. Els ídols de nosaltres,
per la submisa fe de després.

***
A poem by the brother of my Doktorvater, Juan Ferraté. Gabriel Ferrater (same name but in Catalan) was a prominent poet in his post-war but not quite post-Fascist generation. It intrigues me to read him alongside Fernando Pessoa, or at least his heteronym Alberto Caeiro, though almost forty years separate their births. It was Juan who explained to me what poetry is, at least how it works.