There was no swelling music in the background, nor the flickering light of a city burning on the horizon, as I held up my first born tomatoes. I refrained from asking God to witness the event and though the words “I’ll never be hungry again” passed through my mind, they didn’t pass my lips: not that any passer-by would have understood the words, but more worryingly would not have been at all surprised to see me talking to myself, and would probably have been relieved to see that, for a change, I was not selfishly keeping my carefully considered opinions to myself but was sharing them with a tomato.
Once the physical beauty has been enjoyed, the tomato offers little in the way of sociability, which characteristic bears a startling similarity to many of today’s cultivated beauties. This similarity ends when it comes to taste. Unlike many bipedal, cultivated beauties, the tomato has great taste. Maybe that should read “has a great taste” but that’s not what I wrote, nor do I have the knowledge to make that comparison.
I’m awaiting the ripening of these two tomatoes’ cohorts, who remain on the vine drinking as much as they can and warming themselves in the late summer sun. Bipedal, cultivated beauties also like to drink a lot and go red in the sun. You’d think they were vegetables if you didn’t know any better.