I have a thing with tomatoes. I don’t love them. I keep telling people that I haven’t quite grown up yet. To be honest, it’s the slime factor. But I think it all goes back to growing up in Washington State where I was never exposed to a vine-ripened tomato. All the tomatoes I ever saw had white centers and were as bitter as can be. My Mom would always put one slice of tomato on our ice-burg lettuce salad, and both my brother and I would peck around that tomato until it stared back at us with it’s red, slimy seedy eyes. We’d both stab it, force it in our mouths, and chase it down with an entire glass of milk.
Last week I made a huge stride into adult-hood.
I made bruschetta from the tomatoes Carl has been growing in our garden… and I gobbled it up. I am so grown up now. The bruschetta pretty much rocked.
For those who enjoy poetry, here’s my 4th grade poem I wrote about tomatoes:
Oh what a horrible fate
to find a tomato on my plate.
My one and only wish
is for it to disappear from my dish.
Oh what a terrible waste
to have such a yucky taste.
It is such a disgusting crime
to be forced to eat the seeds and slime.
If I could only have my way
I’d make them totally go away.
Pure poetry. Now, to get over olives….