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A salsa that exists only in summer, when tomatoes are warm from the sun and so ripe they threaten to fall apart in your hands. Simple ingredients, honest technique, and the kind of flavor that reminds you why you wait all year.
This salsa is not worth making in February. I need to say that clearly. Without tomatoes at their absolute peak, you are better off opening a jar from someone who canned summer when it was here.
But in August, when the farmers' market tables sag under the weight of heirlooms and the air smells like vine-ripened fruit, this is the only salsa I want. The tomatoes do the work. Your job is to cut them, season them, and get out of the way.
I learned to make salsa from a woman at the Berkeley market who grew tomatoes that tasted like they had been sweetened by the sun itself. She told me the secret was knowing when to stop. Good lime, good salt, fresh cilantro, and the courage to leave it alone. Every meal is a meaningful choice, and choosing tomatoes at their peak, from a farmer whose name you know, makes the dish before you even pick up a knife.
Let things taste of what they are. That is the whole philosophy here, in one bowl.
Quantity
2 pounds
preferably heirloom varieties
Quantity
1/2 medium
such as Vidalia or Walla Walla
Quantity
1
seeds and ribs removed for less heat
Quantity
1 large handful
leaves and tender stems
Quantity
2 tablespoons
about 1 lime
Quantity
1 small clove
Quantity
3/4 teaspoon, plus more to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| ripe summer tomatoespreferably heirloom varieties | 2 pounds |
| sweet onionsuch as Vidalia or Walla Walla | 1/2 medium |
| jalapeño pepperseeds and ribs removed for less heat | 1 |
| fresh cilantroleaves and tender stems | 1 large handful |
| fresh lime juiceabout 1 lime | 2 tablespoons |
| garlic | 1 small clove |
| fine sea salt | 3/4 teaspoon, plus more to taste |
Start with the tomatoes. They should be heavy for their size, fragrant at the stem end, and yield slightly when you press them. If you can smell them from a foot away, you have found the right ones. A mix of colors and sizes makes the salsa more interesting: Cherokee Purples, Brandywines, Sun Golds, whatever your farmer grew well this week.
Core the tomatoes and cut them into rough quarters. If the skins bother you, score an X on the bottom and dip them in boiling water for thirty seconds, then slip the skins off. But truly ripe tomatoes have thin, tender skins that disappear into a good salsa. I rarely bother.
Dice the tomatoes into pieces about the size of your thumbnail. Some smaller, some larger. You want texture, not uniformity. A food processor will turn this into soup. Your knife and a steady hand will make it salsa. Transfer to a large bowl as you go, juices and all.
Finely dice the onion. You want small pieces that distribute through every bite without overwhelming. Mince the jalapeño. Taste a tiny piece first to gauge its heat, then add as much as suits you. Mince the garlic until it almost becomes a paste on your board.
Roughly chop the cilantro, using both leaves and tender stems. The stems carry more flavor than you would expect. Add to the bowl along with the lime juice, squeezing it through your fingers to catch any seeds. Sprinkle in the salt.
Stir everything gently with a wooden spoon. Taste. Adjust. More salt will brighten the tomatoes. More lime will sharpen the edges. More jalapeño if you want heat that lingers. Let the salsa rest for fifteen minutes at room temperature so the flavors can mingle and the salt can draw out more tomato juice.
Taste once more before serving. The salsa will have shifted. The tomatoes will taste more like themselves. This is the moment when you decide if it needs one more pinch of salt or another squeeze of lime. Serve immediately, or refrigerate and bring back to room temperature before eating.
1 serving (about 175g)
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