Saturday, September 1, 2007

The tomatoes are in

It is nearly Fall in New England. We mark this by Back-to-school time, Labor Day, the closing of the public pools, the transition from peach trees to apple trees. The tomato harvest.

I don't buy tomatoes in the store anymore, or ask for them raw on a sandwich. They don't even taste like food. But a tomato grown on a vine, in a backyard or off the deck, is still one of God's great gifts. And I eat myself into a stupor on them.

Understand that I don't garden myself. I am more of an indoor girl.

I am a person people like to take care of, despite my passive agreesive (and sometimes not so passive) response to that gesture. It's probably because I so clearly don't do it myself. I had a co-worker who would, every day, hand me her cast-off fruit from her lunch, as if she wasn't going to eat it. I found out much later that she brought it for me, but she knew I wouldn't eat it if I knew that, only if I thought I was doing her a favor.

I'm really just a highly functioning basset hound in most situations.

When I put the word out that I will take tomatoes off the hands of the home gardner, I reap the full bounty. here's what you do: Wash it. Slice it (circles). Pepper it. Eat it.
Anything else is unnecessary.

I could link here to a whole bunch of recipies for your tomato harvest, but I am not going to. That sounds foody, and I would rather just eat.

But this was odd, so I leave it with you.

1 comment:

  1. what's creepier here?
    1. The old lady singing off key (even before she says, "I love them so much I sing off key")
    2. The reggae beat behind her
    3. The fact that she claims to sleep with a tomato on her head.

    I would argue that here, the whole is creepier than the sum of its' parts.


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