in praise of roasted tomatoes

I wish local, ripe tomatoes were available all year long. Not those horrid, translucent tomatoes available in the winter months.

There's something really special about a roasted tomato - the versatile fruit comes alive and the flavours are so inspiring, I truly feel my tongue awakening.

Last night, all the tomatoes I had left in the house - some Pomodorinos, a few Romas, two handfuls of cherry tomatoes - went into a roasting tin with two teaspoons of olive oil, a glug of white wine vinegar, and a pinch of Maldon salt. I left them alone, knowing next time I opened the oven, it would be to my delight.

The juices, having oozed out of the tomatoes, formed a stunning liquor which would later soak into the wholemeal pasta.

Simplest meal ever: Roasted tomatoes with their juices, poured over pasta (I chose conchiglie this time), and stirred with about 25 g of parmesan per person and a few fresh basil leaves.

Only problem? Less than five minutes later, it was gone. I can't eat roasted tomatoes slowly.