Tomatoes, finally

I didn't grow up eating tomato pie. In fact, I didn't grow up eating anything remotely pie-like that wasn't filled with something fruit-adjacent or chocolate. The idea of combining mayonnaise, cheese, and fresh tomatoes inside a crust would have struck my mother as something you might eat at a roadside stand and later regret. We were open-faced sandwich people. Tomatoes sliced thick, perched precariously on white bread, with either mayonnaise or cream cheese, depending on what kind of day my mother was having, and a sprinkling of salt. This was the height of culinary pleasure to my mother, but to me, it always looked like someone had tried to make lunch during a fire drill. 

 

Tomatoes, in their raw form, eluded me for most of my life. They were too wet, too assertive, too full of tiny translucent seeds suspended in gelatinous sludge. But my mother evangelized about ripe tomatoes. When I was ten years old, and she offered me a bite of her open faced tomato sandwich on a paper plate, I turned up my nose. 

 

"You have no idea what you are missing," she said. "You'll understand one day." That’s the kind of wisdom mothers hand out freely — certain it will bloom eventually, whether you believe it or not.

 

My mother anxiously waited for tomatoes every July, knowing June would be far too soon. At the farmer's market, she'd eye the early tomatoes with suspicion. 

"Those must be hydroponics," she'd say, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. "Too perfect. They aren't real." When the right tomatoes finally arrived, she'd gently squeeze them, or put her hands on them like a soothsayer. "Not ready," she'd say if the tomatoes did not yield. She'd rather walk away than eat a tomato that didn't taste the way it was meant to taste. When the best tomatoes finally arrived, it was as if everything was suddenly right in the world. "Finally," she would say and carefully fill her basket. 

 

Despite my mother's enthusiasm, I still didn't appreciate tomatoes until my forties. It started, as most culinary awakenings do, with hunger and resignation. I was alone in my kitchen, very hungry, and too tired to be picky. I sliced a tomato and put it on top of bread. It tasted wonderful. Sunlight. Acid. Sugar. Something warm and vegetal and deeply satisfying. 

 

I had joined the ranks of the converted. 

 

And once I’d admitted it, the tomatoes came for me. In salads. On grilled bread with a smear of ricotta. In bowls with nothing but salt and olive oil. They were in the house, on the counter, in my dreams. I visited the farmer's market like my mother, calling or texting her about the status of tomatoes and their relative ripeness. As my love for tomatoes grew, so did my curiosity. If raw tomatoes could taste that good, what else had I been missing?

Soon came the answer, from a friend who brought a tomato pie to a dinner party - just mozzarella, basil, and tomatoes nestled in a golden crust. 

 

Somehow, growing up in Alabama and living in West Virginia—both places where tomato pies are practically handed out at birth—I had never eaten one. When I bit into my friend's pie, it was a revelation. Of course it made sense — those open-faced sandwiches, just dressed up and baked until they collapsed into themselves. I started making my own, adding a smear of mayonnaise for creaminess and tang, a nod to those sandwiches of my youth. 

 

My mom, content with tomatoes in their pure, unadulterated form, loved them with nothing more than a sprinkle of salt. If they weren't on white bread and mayo, they were sliced as a summer side dish, no mozzarella or basil needed. But I have a feeling she'd like my tomato pie, as long as there were a few leftover tomatoes to enjoy in their natural state. 

 

The crust can be store-bought or homemade. The cheese can be cheddar, mozzarella, fontina, or gruyere. Tomato pie doesn't improve with rushing. It needs to be made in the afternoon, long before dinner, so the juices have time to settle. Long enough for the house to fill with that tomato-and-cheese warmth. Long enough for the kids to drift in and ask what smells so good. 

 

Sometimes I still slice one raw, lay it on bread, and eat it on a paper plate like Mom used to. The juice runs down my wrist. It tastes like summer. It tastes like getting it. Finally.

Tomato Pie with Gruyère & Basil

A summer classic made simple: ripe tomatoes, fresh basil, and a creamy cheese filling, nestled in a buttery crust. Best served warm or at room temp, with a glass of something cold.

 

Ingredients

• 1 storebought 9-inch pie crust, or your favorite homemade crust

• 3–4 ripe tomatoes, thickly sliced

• 8 ounces total shredded cheese (Gruyère, or a mix of Gruyère and sharp white cheddar—or whatever cheese you prefer. Grate the cheese yourself!)

• Scant ½ cup mayonnaise

• ½ cup fresh basil, chiffonade or torn — most for the filling, some reserved for garnish

• Salt & freshly ground black pepper

 

Instructions

1. Blind bake the crust

• • If using a homemade crust or unbaked storebought crust, preheat oven to 425°F.

  • Fit crust into a 9-inch pie pan, prick bottom with a fork, line with parchment, and fill with pie weights or dried beans.

  • Bake 20 minutes, remove weights and parchment, then bake 5 more minutes until lightly golden. Let cool completely.

  • Reduce oven temperature to 350°F.

1. Prepare the tomatoes

• • Lay tomato slices on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Let sit for 30–45 minutes to draw out moisture. Pat dry thoroughly.

1. Make the cheese mixture

• • In a medium bowl, combine the shredded cheese, scant ½ cup mayo, most of the basil (reserve a little for topping), and a few grinds of salt and black pepper. Mix well.

1. Assemble the pie

• • Arrange about ⅓ of the tomato slices tightly in the bottom of the cooled crust. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

  • Dot with half of the cheese mixture.

  • Add another third of the tomatoes, the rest of the cheese mixture, then finish with the remaining tomato slices.

1. Bake

• • Bake at 350°F for 30 minutes, or until lightly browned and bubbling.

1. Cool and serve

• • Let cool on a wire rack for at least 30 minutes.

  • Sprinkle with the reserved fresh basil.

  • Slice with a serrated knife. Serve warm or at room temperature.