Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
When I got home from work today there were two tomatoes sitting in a tiny blue dish on the counter. Standing alone in the kitchen, I knew Peter must have plucked them from the vine that afternoon. Even though they were perfectly formed, ripe little orbs, he couldn't eat them without me. And I couldn't eat them without him. Let me clarify that I do eat lots of things without Peter (most notably cheese) and later in the summer I will have no compunction about gorging myself on whatever tomatoes I can find. But these were our first tomatoes of the year. The plants, purchased from a nursery over Mother's Day weekend, started out just over a foot high. Since May, we've been watching the slender branches grow ever stronger, begin to flower, and now finally produce fruit. Last week, Peter pointed out our tomatoes' first tinge of red that was gradually replacing the green. My weekly garden visits became daily as I kept close watch over the change. So, you understand, I just couldn't be greedy in the face of garden-fresh tomatoes. I had to wait.
Two hours later. The taste of summer's first garden tomato: A burst of heady sweetness. Smooth skin encircling a gushy center. So portable, so pleasing to just pop the whole thing right into my mouth. A taste both shocking in it's originality--this is what real tomatoes are supposed to taste like! Yet, utterly familiar, as I conjured up memories of last year's crop. Was it worth waiting for? Of course.