Tomatoes - I heart them

I love tomatoes. And I love to make tomato sauce - it's one of my comfort foods. After a hard day of 7 YOW decorating yesterday, I made a big pot of fresh tomato sauce. Gosh, it was good, if I may say so myself! Here's my recipe - it varies depending on the herbs I have and it is a little different from the sauce I make when using canned tomatoes.

Yesterday's ingredients were:

3 lbs of fresh tomatoes
1 head of garlic
Fresh herbs of basil, thyme, oregano, marjoram and fennel fronds
Dried herbs of fennel seed and red pepper flakes
1 small can of tomato paste
Red wine - fill up the tomato paste can, or 6 oz.
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Wash tomatoes and cut out the stem portion. Cut up and put into food processor - pulse until you get the texture you want. (I tend to like the fresh sauce chunky.) Don't over process as it will turn the sauce pinkish rather than red. Pour tomatoes into large bowl and finish processing the rest of the tomatoes.

Chop the garlic and saute in olive oil being careful not to burn it. Add the dried fennel and hot pepper flakes, cook for about a minute. Add the tomato paste and cook for a few minutes. Add the wine, cooking and stirring until smooth - then add the tomatoes. Add salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and add the fresh herbs. Lower heat to medium and simmer until the sauce has reduced to the consistency you like.

It's good. It's easy. I like it!

And because tomatoes always remind me of Pablo Neruda's ode, here it is:

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.