Georgia Tomato Pie

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“Mama makes it, just for me

Down in Georgia, as you can see

With a sprinkle of basil, and some cheese so fine,

Every bite is just divine

(Chorus) Honey, don't you worry

Honey, don't you fret

Tomato pie's the best thing yet!

Tomato Pie Boogie, by Doc Lawrence

The Glory of Tomato Pie

In Georgia, where the summer sun seems to ripen the earth itself, tomato season doesn’t just mark a change in produce—it marks a shift in spirit. Farmer’s markets swell with proud, heirloom varieties, backyard gardeners show off their deep-red treasures, and kitchens across the South fill with the scent of something both nostalgic and impossibly fresh: tomato pie.

Unlike its Italian cousin pizza, tomato pie is unapologetically Southern. It’s not about stretching dough or layering meats. It’s about coaxing the best out of the season’s crown jewel—the tomato—and dressing it in creamy richness, fresh herbs, and a golden, flaky crust.

Every Southern cook worth their salt has a tomato pie memory. For my neighbor Miss Ella, it was the dish her mother made in cast iron on Saturdays, paired with sweet tea and watermelon. For me, it was the summer my grandmother taught me how to blind-bake a pie crust without cracking it—her kitchen cool with ceiling fan breeze and heavy with the smell of sun-warmed tomatoes laid out on paper towels.

“I don’t want no pizza,” she used to say with a wink. “This here’s real pie.”

Tomato pie isn’t just dinner. It’s heritage served warm.

Southern Tomato Pie Recipe

For the crust

1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

½ tsp salt

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold and cut into cubes

3–4 tbsp ice water

For the filling:

4–5 ripe tomatoes (heirloom or beefsteak), sliced ¼-inch thick

Salt (for draining tomatoes)

½ cup chopped sweet Vidalia onion

¾ cup mayonnaise

1 cup sharp white cheddar, grated

½ cup mozzarella, grated

2 tbsp fresh basil, chopped

1 tbsp fresh thyme leaves (or ½ tsp dried)

Fresh ground pepper, to taste

Make the Crust. In a bowl, whisk the flour and salt. Add the cold butter cubes and use a pastry cutter (or your fingers) to cut the butter into the flour until it resembles coarse crumbs.

Add ice water 1 tablespoon at a time, stirring just until the dough holds together.

Shape into a disc, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface and fit into a 9-inch pie pan. Trim edges.

Line the crust with parchment paper and fill with pie weights. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes, remove weights and parchment, and bake 10 more minutes until golden. Let cool.

Lay tomato slices on paper towels. Sprinkle with sae salt and let sit for 30–45 minutes to draw out moisture. Pat dry.

Spread chopped onions evenly over the cooled crust.

Layer in the tomatoes, slightly overlapping.

Sprinkle with chopped basil, thyme, and black pepper.

In a bowl, mix the mayo with both cheeses. Dollop this mixture over the top and spread gently to cover the tomatoes.

Bake at 350°F for 30–35 minutes, until bubbly and golden.

Let cool at least 15 minutes before slicing.

In a world racing forward, tomato pie invites us to slow down. It’s a dish that can’t be rushed: the tomatoes must rest, the crust must chill, the cheese must brown. It’s humble, sure—but it’s also rich with care and history.

Tomato Pie is proof that simple food can tell the biggest stories. It’s a memory passed down, a flavor rooted in red clay and long summer nights.