Jersey Tomato

Tomato lovers, prepare to salivate: The red, ripe Jersey tomato of the past may be poised for a comeback. Once upon a time, Jersey tomatoes were so succulent you could eat a slice on crusty bread with just a dash of salt and achieve nirvana, though kids today - especially those under 37 - may find it hard to believe. But it's true - tomatoes were tasty. And now a team of top-level scientists from Rutgers New Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station wants to bring back that flavor.

BRIDGETON, N.J. - If you cut to the right off Northville Road north of here, not far past the Seabrook Buddhist Temple and the Rutgers research center where a tomato tasting was in progress earlier this month, you found yourself face-to-face with the sort of hard-core agriculture best practiced behind the curtain. Once upon a time, this stretch of Cumberland County gave rise to the state's largest farm, the province of one C. F. Seabrook, generally credited - for better and worse - with industrializing New Jersey agriculture.

No snickering allowed. Just how, exactly, would one go about capturing the essence of New Jersey in a fragrance? Well, maybe you can snicker a little. Custom Essence, a fragrance company with an apparent sense of humor, was one of two dozen exhibitors hawking products at the Statehouse yesterday for "Made in New Jersey Day. " The company's idea of a New Jersey fragrance? "Jersey Tomato. " Smells like it, too. Just ask Gov. Whitman. "Yes!" she announced after taking a whiff of a tomato-scented candle.

STUDENTS at the Bowman School of Dance in Cherry Hill rehearse an original play, "What a State I'm In. " Heather Regan, mimicking Mae West, sits on Joshua Neri's lap as they rehearse a song called "Jersey Tomato. "

Like the baseball season, the Jersey tomato is a warm-weather event that people eagerly anticipate. Unlike baseball, it's around for barely two months. Its season is short, but from mid-July to mid-September, this New Jersey jewel becomes a most sought-after commodity. Hitting a roadside stand for vine-ripened Jerseys is often a planned stop on a trip to the shore. But like our local baseball team, the Jersey tomato doesn't always have a winning year. Last year, for example, a cold spring followed by an excessively hot summer waffled the tomato.

As the story goes, Col. Robert Gibbon Johnson stood on the steps of the Salem County courthouse before a gathering of his fellow citizens on a hot day in July 1820, ate a tomato, and did not drop dead. Tomatoes were considered poisonous in those days, and Johnson's act set in motion a chain of events that would make Jersey and the tomato synonymous. Good story, but, historians say, it's a legend. Still, like all good myths, it has an element of truth: Johnson was a major promoter of agriculture about the time that tomatoes were being cultivated for commercial purposes.

In the politics of fruit - and nearly everything in New Jersey is political - the blueberry is poised to make gravy out of the tomato. That should become evident today as the Assembly considers a bill to make the blueberry, specifically the highbush blueberry (Vaccinium corymbosum), the state fruit. In the meantime, a bill to bestow the honor on the Jersey tomato (Lycopersicon esculentum) apparently has rotted on the vine in committee limbo. And to think this is a fight started by schoolchildren looking for a practical lesson in government.

Dot Hinchliffe's eyes widened with anticipation when she heard that South Jersey's tomato harvest would be early this year. "It's hard to describe, really," she said, holding her hands out as if clutching a bounty. "They're just . . . " She paused, and smiled. "Good. " Tomato fans know when they taste a great one. The fruit - no, it's not a vegetable - is brilliant red. It feels ripe but firm and plump, nicely fitting in the palm of an average hand. It'll give a little with a slight squeeze, then return to its original shape.

True, there are acres of shopping malls, hectares of housing developments and plenty of factories dotting the landscape, but New Jersey emphatically remains the Garden State. And those who prove every day that the moniker is more than just a slogan on a license plate - the growers who make vegetable farming a $100 million-a-year industry in New Jersey - have converged this week on the Trump Taj Mahal Casino Hotel for the New Jersey Vegetable Growers Association convention to see that it stays that way. The convention ends this afternoon.

BRIDGETON, N.J. - If you cut to the right off Northville Road north of here, not far past the Seabrook Buddhist Temple and the Rutgers research center where a tomato tasting was in progress earlier this month, you found yourself face-to-face with the sort of hard-core agriculture best practiced behind the curtain. Once upon a time, this stretch of Cumberland County gave rise to the state's largest farm, the province of one C. F. Seabrook, generally credited - for better and worse - with industrializing New Jersey agriculture.

Tomato lovers, prepare to salivate: The red, ripe Jersey tomato of the past may be poised for a comeback. Once upon a time, Jersey tomatoes were so succulent you could eat a slice on crusty bread with just a dash of salt and achieve nirvana, though kids today - especially those under 37 - may find it hard to believe. But it's true - tomatoes were tasty. And now a team of top-level scientists from Rutgers New Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station wants to bring back that flavor.

Tomato lovers, prepare to salivate: The red, ripe Jersey tomato of the past may be poised for a comeback. Once upon a time, Jersey tomatoes were so succulent you could eat a slice on crusty bread with just a dash of salt and achieve nirvana, though kids today - especially those under 37 - may find it hard to believe. But it's true - tomatoes were tasty. And now a team of top-level scientists from Rutgers New Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station wants to bring back that flavor.

In the politics of fruit - and nearly everything in New Jersey is political - the blueberry is poised to make gravy out of the tomato. That should become evident today as the Assembly considers a bill to make the blueberry, specifically the highbush blueberry (Vaccinium corymbosum), the state fruit. In the meantime, a bill to bestow the honor on the Jersey tomato (Lycopersicon esculentum) apparently has rotted on the vine in committee limbo. And to think this is a fight started by schoolchildren looking for a practical lesson in government.

It's final flower time for Gloucester City school psychologist and Phillies fan Helene Ren?e Eksterowicz. Tonight's the night Aaron Buerge, 28 - perhaps the best-looking employee in a chain of family-owned banks in Springfield, Mo. - will choose between brown-haired beauty Eksterowicz, 27, and blond Brooke Smith, 22, of Albertville, Ala., on The Bachelor, at 9 on ABC. Buerge dated 25 gorgeous gals, in hot tubs and hometowns. At the end of each weekly episode of this series' second edition, he gave a single rose to a select number, signaling they were still in the dating game.

No snickering allowed. Just how, exactly, would one go about capturing the essence of New Jersey in a fragrance? Well, maybe you can snicker a little. Custom Essence, a fragrance company with an apparent sense of humor, was one of two dozen exhibitors hawking products at the Statehouse yesterday for "Made in New Jersey Day. " The company's idea of a New Jersey fragrance? "Jersey Tomato. " Smells like it, too. Just ask Gov. Whitman. "Yes!" she announced after taking a whiff of a tomato-scented candle.

As the story goes, Col. Robert Gibbon Johnson stood on the steps of the Salem County courthouse before a gathering of his fellow citizens on a hot day in July 1820, ate a tomato, and did not drop dead. Tomatoes were considered poisonous in those days, and Johnson's act set in motion a chain of events that would make Jersey and the tomato synonymous. Good story, but, historians say, it's a legend. Still, like all good myths, it has an element of truth: Johnson was a major promoter of agriculture about the time that tomatoes were being cultivated for commercial purposes.

I've just returned from a week at the Shore. The weather was great, the beaches were beautiful, and the water was delightful. More important, the tomatoes and corn were starting to come in. I had brought a friend from Illinois with me. She had never had a real - that is to say, a Jersey - tomato. So in a hushed, almost ritualistic way, I presented her first plate of tomato slices. Yes, her expression said, this is a real tomato. This is what a tomato is supposed to be. As the week progressed, vacation became less about getting into the water and more about where next to get tomatoes.

A real summer controversy: The Jersey tomato Bravo to Rick Nichols for his column "N.J. tomato ain't what it used to be" (Inquirer, Aug. 5). It may seem frivolous to voice distress over something as far down the list of global ills, but small things can affect the quality of life, and what is happening to the tomato is one of them. Unfortunately, it is not just the Jersey tomato that is involved. It is any tomato from any supermarket or even roadside stand. In the interest of longer shelf life and reduced shipping losses, growers have succeeded in turning summer tomatoes into close approximation of those imitation tomatoes foisted upon the public in the winter.

Tomato fans, worry not. The annual New Jersey Championship Tomato contest, which was canceled earlier this year, is back on. A New Jersey business will rescue the 20-year tradition. ShopRite will sponsor the tomato weigh-in at several of its supermarkets on Aug. 29. The grower of the heaviest tomato will win $1,000, and other prizes will be awarded, said Laura McCafferty, ShopRite spokeswoman. The annual contest, which was sponsored by local markets and gardening stores and the Seaview Square Mall in Ocean Township, was originated and organized by Joseph Heimbold Sr., a marketing consultant.