“I think a tomato...is spiritual...in Zen Buddhism, when people ask, ‘What is the fundamental principle of Buddhism?’ you could very well answer, ‘A tomato.’”

Alan Watts, “Man, Nature and the Nature of Man”

I live in Prescott, Arizona, during the growing season. I’m sure Prescottonians would not only understand, but agree with the late Mr. Watts. Many are gardeners, and those who aren’t are treated, graciously, by neighbors, every summer, to the glory of the vine ripened tomato. You’re nodding. It’s a religious experience, isn’t it, eating a lovingly home grown tomato?

I didn’t really understand tomatoes until one of my friends in Seattle blessed me with the excess from her garden. My first reactions to eating a garden grown tomato were to stop buying tomatoes unless I happened across a reliable farmer’s market and to start cultivating friendships with vegetable gardeners. The ultimate pleasure is biting into an unadulterated tomato. Patty’s vines, though, produced so many tomatoes that I tired of tomatoes instead of apples; tomatoes sliced and seasoned with salt and pepper; luscious, slovenly BLTs on sourdough that tasted like the T. Then I remembered: Years before I’d clipped a recipe for a tomato pie that read delectable, but I’d never tried it. I found it, baked it, shared it with friends. We swooned.

The recipe was published in the San Francisco Examiner, credited to Harvey Steiman. I consistently clip very few food columnists. He was one I favored. This man likes food and knows what to do with it. The recipe I’m publishing is my adaptation. I never made the original; genetically, this is impossible for me. I also didn’t want to run the risk of copyright infringement. The one below is faithful to the intent; so faithful that you will understand why Mr. Steiman is one of my favorite sources when it comes to playing with food.

Spirit of Tomato Pie

Make up your favorite biscuit dough. I’ve used Bisquick^® and, although I prefer my own, it’s not bad. Don’t use prepared biscuits from the refrigerated section of your grocery. They have a funny taste. Besides, it’s difficult to accomplish the next step with them, which is: mix the basil into the biscuit dough.

Divide the basil-laced biscuit dough into two equal parts. After you've buttered, oiled or sprayed (with non-stick cooking spray) the pie plate liberally, roll out one half of the dough and press it into the pie plate, forming a bottom crust.

Distribute the tomatoes, sausage, green onions and cheese in successive layers into the crust. When you get finished with one section of layers drizzle some pesto over them. Keep going until you’ve used up all the ingredients.

Meat isn’t necessary. Or, substitute pepperoni (defatted in the microwave for 15-25 seconds on high, depending on wattage and quantity of pepperoni) or bits of ham. Like green peppers? Throw some in. Celery? Why not? Herb dressing instead of pesto? Of course. For a heartier crust, substitute a half cup of whole wheat flour (or rye, or graham four) for a half cup of the white flour in your biscuit recipe. Once, I ran out of white flour and had to use an entire cup of wheat flour. To my taste, it made the crust even better. This recipe begs for experimentation.

Roll out the other half of the biscuit dough and top the pie with it. It’ll look unwieldy. Don’t worry, the insides collapse during baking and the juices are absorbed into the crust. Seal the edges of the crust. Poke a few holes in the top for ventilation. Bake about 25-30 minutes, until golden brown.

It’ll be an excruciating half hour. The fragrance of basil will fill your house. Your mouth will water. You will obsessively peek through the glass window of your oven door to check its progress.

Take it out. Tantalize yourself. Let it mellow for 45 minutes or so, until it’s touchably warm and the flavor peaks. It’s unbearable. You can’t wait any longer. Go ahead. Try a slice.

What did I tell you? Heaven on earth!

Text, Recipes & Graphics ©1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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