With free trade agreements in effect, and fruit and vegetable transport more sophisticated than ever, we can easily (and sometimes not even that expensively) obtain many types of produce from the opposite hemisphere during its local off-season. With this phenomenon more and more widespread, it's easy these days to forget that most of the garden and orchard offerings we enjoy were once restricted to certain times of year at all. And having a season meant that each apple, plum, and sugar snap pea was available then and only then Ð or, depending on the month and the health of the growing season, now and only now. The long winters where I grew up in Upstate New York were a drab but well-meaning attempt to enjoy storage onions, red delicious apples, potatoes and cabbage. Then came March, and with it a few blissful weeks of fresh asparagus. Asparagus meant spring. And strawberries meant June,. We could Ñand didÑset our calendars by the produce department, and the bounty that followed the first crocus breaking through the still-frozen ground was suddenly worth the wait.

This isn't to say I like to buy things out of season and from thousands of miles away. I don't like to. However, like many principled food-lovers who love, say, a perfect mango more than principles, sometimes I do it anywayÑnot often, but more than I care to admit. A few zucchini just this once? Okay. A stalk of broccoli? Fine. But some things are sacred. I draw the line at tomatoes.

Tomatoes that are ripened on the vine and in the sun are not the same thing as those ripened any other place and by any other source. Tomatoes grown locally and picked just yesterday (or even today) are like nothing else called tomatoes, simple as that. Their season is generous, compared to, say, blackberries. And with each passing week of their season, they seem to acquire different characteristics- all of them good, to my experience. Two weeks ago, they were probably firmer and more tart. In a few months, there will be a few left, and they will run the gamut from barely ripe (all the better to pickle them or fry them for breakfast in a thick, crisp cornmeal-coated slices) to almost overripe (the better to eat them and weep Ð juices dripping down your chin).

But now, right now, this very moment, many tomatoes are in a state of grace. It's called perfection. Vine-ripened tomatoes can make believers out of skeptics, and can confer light-heartedness (or at least a transcendent moment or two) upon the grumpiest of the grumps.

And as much as fresh, ripe tomatoes are meant to be simply cut into mouth-sized chunks and eaten (possibly still radiant from their sun-drenched vine), sometimes a recipe is a good idea, because you bought so many of them at the farmers' market (or, lucky you, you picked so many of them from your wonderful garden) you need to use a couple of pounds of them in one terrific context. Also, you want to take advantage of the fact that ripe tomatoes have several culinary soul mates, with which they combine mightily and dreamily (and how often are those two adjectives partnered?)

I'm talking about sweet red onion, garlic, cucumber, fresh savory herbs, olives, olive oil, and feta cheese. I think I just gave you most of the recipe. Bulgarian Tomato Salad! You just toss is all together and serve it at room temperature. This is perfect summer lunch with plenty of crusty artisan bread to mop up all the venerable juices. All you'll need to complete the meal is a bowlful of fresh peaches. In season, of course.

Note: You'll notice I said "serve it at room temperature." Tomatoes lose (texture, flavor) much when chilled - or even when stored in a non-refrigerated place cooler than about 55¡. Better to store them in a modestly out-of-the-sun place that is slightly too warm, than to let them encounter too low a temperature.

1. Slice the tomatoes in half; squeeze out and discard the seeds.
2. Cut the tomatoes into 1-inch chunks, and transfer to a medium-large bowl.
3. Add everything else, and toss gently until combined. Taste to adjust salt and pepper.
4. Serve at room temperature, in bowls, with fresh, crusty artisan bread to mop up the juices.