It’s four days of noise, chaos, and flavor…
There’s something beautifully absurd about celebrating a tomato. A fruit so simple, so humble—yet so divisive, it can start fights between Italians and New Yorkers about sauce, or spark late-night arguments over whether the Jersey variety deserves any respect at all. In Pittston, Pennsylvania, though, there’s no debate. For four days every August, the tomato isn’t just food—it’s religion.
From August 21 to 24, 2025, downtown Pittston will be transformed into one long, sweaty, delicious street party. The Pittston Tomato Festival has been running since the mid-’80s, when a group of locals decided to throw a party around their legendary tomatoes. Back then, people probably thought it was a goofy idea. Today? It’s one of the biggest festivals in the region, drawing over 100,000 people who descend on this little city in Luzerne County to eat, drink, run, dance, and yes—worship the tomato.
The Scene
Picture this: side streets jammed with vendors hawking everything from fried dough to red sauce so thick it clings to your ribs. A parade cuts through town, complete with marching bands and kids waving to their grandparents from floats. There’s a 5K “Tomato Run” for those who need to feel virtuous before devouring two pounds of pizza fritta. Bingo tents, carnival rides, arts and crafts—it’s Norman Rockwell meets Fellini. A carnival of smells, sounds, and flavors. The kind of event where you spill something down your shirt and no one cares, because they’re too busy dripping marinara down theirs.
And then, of course, there’s the tomato itself. Pittston’s tomatoes are legendary—thick-skinned, meaty, impossibly sweet. Old-timers will tell you they put Jersey to shame. Chefs in New York used to beg for these things. They’re the real deal, the red jewels that built the town’s reputation as the “Tomato Capital of the World.” You’ll find them sliced and salted, tossed into salads, simmered into Sunday gravy, or simply handed to you whole, still warm from the sun.
A Little History
The first festival happened in 1984, and it wasn’t slick or polished. It was rough around the edges—local nonprofits running booths, neighbors wiring lights, volunteers working behind the scenes to make it happen. The organizers worried no one would show up. Instead, they were mobbed. Within a few years, the Tomato Festival was pulling tens of thousands of visitors, and by the late ’80s, ABC News was calling it one of the fastest-growing festivals in America. All for a tomato.
That’s the magic of this thing. It’s not a corporate-branded, airbrushed event. It’s messy, chaotic, run by locals who care. People keep coming back because it feels real. Like family. Like the neighborhood block party you wish your neighborhood still had.
Why Go?
Because life is short. Because you need a reminder that food can be fun, loud, communal—something more than fuel or Instagram fodder. You go to Pittston for the music, the kids screaming on carnival rides, the parade floats, the ridiculous tomato contests (biggest, ugliest, most perfect). You go for the stories you’ll tell later: that time you danced to a cover band after three beers, or when you bit into a fried tomato sandwich and realized—yeah, this is living.
You don’t have to be from Pittston to get it. For four days, you’re part of something bigger. Something messy, loud, and unapologetically human. A tomato festival, sure. But also a celebration of community, local NEPA cuisine, and joy.
Advice? Wear something you don’t mind staining. Bring cash. Come hungry. And don’t fight over which tomato is best—just eat the damn thing and enjoy.
