I just read your article, Miriam Rubin, about tasty tomato sandwiches [Food & Flavor, Sept. 11], and I just had to write you. Personally, I do not care for tomatoes, but I was happy to draw vivid images from your descriptions, and I can see my friends and family enjoying such sandwiches.

My love-hate relationship with tomatoes stretches back to my early childhood. Growing up in a family of tomato lovers and farmers, it was difficult, to say the least, to protest the array of tomatoes introduced. My mother, uncles, and aunts all planted beautiful gardens each summer. I even started to grow tomatoes in my own gardens around age 9, although I passed them off to everyone else. I remember standing at the sink, watching my mother and grandmother peeling the skins of just-boiled tomatoes, delicately halving them and placing them into mason jars, later lining the basement shelves with the ruby red results. Watching the canning process was always exciting, although I much preferred peaches and corn to tomatoes.

One specific childhood memory that haunts me is from one weekend that my father's parents were visiting. Every summer, they maintained large, potted cherry tomato vines on their back patio. Trying to convince me that these little red gems tasted "sweet, just like real cherries," my grandma handed me one.

I recall standing in one corner of the kitchen, with my mother and grandma watching as I bit into the test subject. When it burst and shot seeds all the way across the room, hitting the fridge, I squealed with dread, and swore never to eat another cherry tomato.

Recently, when my parents drove in from Michigan to visit, my mother brought a handful of her own cherry tomatoes. I agreed to put them in a chopped Israeli salad I was preparing for dinner. When I started removing the seeds with a demitasse spoon, my mother began to tsk-tsk me. I reminded her of the violent, shooting tomato, and she left me to my work.

Finally, I would like to share with you my family's version of a tomato sandwich, or rather, peanut butter and tomato sandwich. To this day, I can't understand the desire for such a sandwich, but I have managed to perfect this delicacy to my father's liking.

First, you toast two slices of wheat or another hearty bread (white bread was banned in our household). Spread natural peanut butter on both slices (sweetened peanut butter such as Jif won't do the trick), so that the bread does not become soggy. Lay two or three generous slices of tomato between the bread and cut the sandwich in half, diagonally. If you prefer an additional crunch, crisp romaine lettuce may be added.

JENNIFER STOTTER
Squirrel Hill

My mother would never forgive me if I didn't tell you about one of my family's favorite tomato sandwiches. Most people have a vile reaction until they try it so here goes: Take your favorite sliced bread and toast it (medium). Cut two generous slices of tomato (beefsteaks were our favorites) and salt and pepper lightly and then spread peanut butter -- yes, peanut butter -- on the top slice, assemble and cut in half. Try it -- I think you will find that it is delicious.

RICK DIMARCO
Friendship

Our family's version of this was bread/peanut butter/Miracle Whip/tomato. And perhaps pepper on that. I went so far as the PB and Miracle Whip but drew the line at the tomato. I've always wondered if this sandwich were a Pittsburgh concoction.

-- Margi Shrum