Tomatoes Too Pretty To Eat
I saw a vegetable stand and could not pass it without browsing. These heirloom tomatoes caught my eye. I've been holding them in my hand just sniffing them ... they don't smell like the hothouse tomatoes we buy at the supermarket. They smell real and of the earth. And, I'm remembering (our sense of smell is a wonderful trigger for memories):
- Following my grandfather as he gathered tomatoes in the truck patch, with the sun beating down on our heads. While Papaw wasn't looking, I popped cherry tomatoes into my mouth, sure that he would never know I had done it --- even though telltale juice dribbled down my chin.
- Walking through a field of tomatoes at the end of summer with my two blond haired toddlers in tow. I was gathering tomatoes to make picante sauce, and trying to get them to taste sun-ripened tomatoes. They were too busy squealing and swatting the giant grasshoppers that kept using them as springboards.
- Watching my mother's gnarled hands as she sliced fresh tomatoes for hamburgers at a family picnic. I hoped that my hands would never be that crippled with arthritis. Oops. Vain hope.
