I don’t have a hard rule against it, but I generally don’t buy tomatoes out of season.
Last night, though, we were having burgers, and I wanted a tomato on top.
The last time I broke this rule, I cut into the tomato and tossed the whole thing straight into the compost. You can tell immediately when a tomato is going to disappoint you. The color is wrong. The texture gives it away. There’s no reason to torture your mouth.
Last night’s tomato, thankfully, was passable—especially with the help of a generous blob of sriracha mayo.
I have similar policies around strawberries, and maybe blueberries too, though I’m still undecided on that one.*
Despite all our modern growing technology, out-of-season fruit rarely delivers. And honestly, I’m grateful for that.
I like waiting for the good stuff.
In our house, anticipation is part of the pleasure. We keep a chalkboard tally of how many half-gallons of eggnog we go through in December. Sour cherry gummies and Reese’s Pieces appear once a year, in April, tucked inside plastic eggs. Strawberries arrive in June. Tomatoes reach their full, glorious potential only in August and September.
Food eaten in season tastes better because it belongs to that season.
Waiting matters.
This morning, I stumbled across a post by Jenny Rosenstrach at Dinner: A Love Story titled “Death of Anticipation.” It referenced a timeline originally published years ago in Cookie magazine, charting how modern convenience has slowly stripped anticipation out of daily life.
Jenny wrote:
“I have convinced myself that if we eat together every night and fight hard against The Death of Anticipation, our kids will turn out just fine.”
That line stuck with me.
Eating in season isn’t just about flavor—though that’s reason enough. It’s about orientation. It connects us to cycles that are bigger than convenience and faster than habit. It asks us to pay attention. To notice. To wait.
Gardens teach this better than almost anything else.
You can’t rush a strawberry. You can’t force a tomato to taste like summer in February, no matter how far it travels or how carefully it’s bred. The reward comes only if you’re willing to wait for the right moment.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not everything needs to be available all the time. Some things are better when they arrive once a year, briefly, and leave you wanting more.
Footnote (kept, lightly refined)
* Blueberries remain an exception. Sometimes they’re bland and mealy straight off the shrub. Other times they’re perfect. I suspect weather, timing, and maybe when I’m picking—morning versus heat of day—has something to do with it. I haven’t cracked the code yet.
Photo by www.zanda. photography
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