Rustic Roasted Vegetable Tart

The tomatoes are out of control. I picked forty-seven tomatoes on Monday and that's not an exaggeration, that's a count, because I counted them as I put them in the basket the way a man counts evidence of his own success. Better Boys and beefsteaks, red and heavy, warm from the sun. The kitchen counter looks like a farmers' market stall. Connie said we need to do something with these. I said I am doing something with them. She said eating them over the sink is not a plan, Craig.

Made salsa. Not a recipe Betty would recognize — Betty didn't eat Mexican food, Betty didn't eat anything that couldn't trace its origin to Harlan County or the King James Bible — but a recipe that uses tomatoes, which Betty would approve of, because using tomatoes is the moral obligation of anyone who grows them. Tomatoes roasted in the oven until blistered, then blended with jalapeños, onion, garlic, cilantro, lime juice, salt. Seven pints of salsa, canned in the water bath. Lined up on the counter next to the twelve quarts of whole tomatoes from last month. The counter is running out of room. I need a shelf. I need a cellar. I need Betty's cellar in Evarts, which had room for three hundred jars and never enough.

Also made BLTs for supper three nights this week because when the tomatoes are this good, a BLT is not a sandwich, it's a sacrament. Thick-sliced bacon, fried until crisp but not burnt. Tomato sliced thick, still warm from the counter. Iceberg lettuce because Betty used iceberg and I will not participate in the arugula movement. Duke's mayonnaise on white bread, toasted. You eat it over the sink because the tomato runs and the bacon drips and the mayo slides and a BLT is not a polite sandwich, it's an honest one.

After seven pints of salsa and three nights of BLTs, I still had tomatoes sitting on the counter giving me that look—the one that says you grew us, now do something about it. So I sliced a few of the big beefsteaks thick, roasted them alongside some zucchini and onion from the garden, and laid them into this tart like I was setting stones in a wall. It’s the kind of thing Betty might have made if somebody had handed her a pie crust and said put vegetables in it—simple, honest, and gone before the plate gets cold.

Prep Time: 25 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 10 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 sheet puff pastry, thawed
3 medium tomatoes, sliced 1/4 inch thick
1 medium zucchini, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
1 small red onion, thinly sliced
1 red bell pepper, cut into strips
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
4 ounces goat cheese, crumbled
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 egg, beaten (for egg wash)
Fresh basil leaves, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Set oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Roast the vegetables. Toss the tomato slices, zucchini rounds, red onion, and bell pepper strips with olive oil, garlic, thyme, salt, and pepper. Spread in a single layer on a separate baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes, until softened and lightly caramelized. Remove and let cool slightly.
Prepare the pastry. Unfold the puff pastry onto the parchment-lined baking sheet. Spread the Dijon mustard evenly over the surface, leaving a 1-1/2 inch border around the edges.
Assemble the tart. Arrange the roasted vegetables over the mustard layer, overlapping the tomato and zucchini slices. Scatter the crumbled goat cheese over the top. Fold the pastry border up and over the edges of the filling, pleating as you go to create a rustic rim.
Egg wash and bake. Brush the exposed pastry edges with the beaten egg. Bake for 22 to 25 minutes, until the crust is puffed and deep golden brown.
Serve. Let the tart cool for 5 minutes, then scatter fresh basil leaves over the top. Slice and serve warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Rustic Roasted Vegetable Tart — Because Forty-Seven Tomatoes Demand More Than a Mason Jar