After 10 minutes of staring at my first red tomato in all his round ripe perfection, I picked him, cradled him in my arms and tiptoed him to the kitchen, where I laid him down on a cutting board and halved him with a steak knife.
I picked some basil too. Cut mozzarella as well. Sandwiched it all together and then gazed again at the cutting board in rapture. Squealed even. Brought it all to my mouth and then stopped.
I removed the mozzarella from the tomato and put the basil leaf off to the side. I couldn’t bring myself to mask my tomato’s virgin taste. I wanted him in his purest form. No creamy cheese. No pungent basil. Just my unblemished handsome tomato and me.
He was delectable. Exquisite. Quite possibly the most succulent, luscious tomato I have ever tasted. The first bite was so gratifying I took another and another, until all that remained was basil and mozzarella, rendered useless by my tomato’s flawless tang.
I squealed again.
“THIS IS AMAZING!” I yelled from the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Joe yelled back from the living room.
“THIS IS THE MOST WONDERFUL TOMATO ON EARTH. IT IS A SUPER TOMATO.”
“Good. I’m glad you think so,” said Joe, who hates all vegetables and fruits.
“MY STOMACH IS REJOICING! BABY, YOU’RE MISSING OUT ON THE TOMATO OF A LIFETIME.”
“I’m OK with that,” he replied flatly.
As I returned to the living room with juice trickling from the corners of my mouth, Joe perked up from his basketball game and said, “I’ll have to make a sauce when the rest of them are ripe.”
I stopped. Licked the juice from my lips.
“Oh hell no,” I snapped. “These tomatoes ain’t for sauce. I’ll plant you a sauce vine if you want. I’m eating these guys raw.”