A recipe that takes me back to my village, to summers spent with my grandparents. When my grandmother went to water the garden, it was a celebration for us. She would wake us up early, we'd load our water bottles onto the donkey, my sister and I would ride along, and off we'd go to the fields. Grandma would lead the donkey, and at that age, we never thought to get off and let her ride... and she just accepted that her granddaughters were unaccustomed and should ride. When we arrived at the garden, we’d start watering... I’d pick tomatoes, wash them in the canal, and bite right into their flesh... I’ve never tasted such sweetness and flavor in any other tomato since.

When we returned to the village, the ripest tomatoes would be grated, cooked in a pan until all the liquid evaporated... then a little olive oil, and fresh eggs from the chicken coop, beaten in an enamel plate and poured into the pan, always on the stovetop, even after she got a kitchen range... then she’d set the table for us to eat first, and only after would she eat... “You eat, I’m full just watching you,” my dear grandma would say... Oh grandma, I’ve grown up, but I’ve never forgotten your tomato and eggs, or anything else you taught me.