I hoarded you, dainty little tomato, a gift from my mother, lovingly handpicked from her garden. I transported you across miles. After waiting three days, staring at you from afar, like a lover unsure how to make the first move, the anticipation built, but I stalled, as if devouring you too soon, without thought or reverence, would be disrespectful. Or worse – you might disappoint, and break some spell. But now, today, I reach for the knife, the serrated one, to avoid a bruise. I take a breath, hesitating slightly. You are small, delicate, fragrant. The first of the season, not much bigger than a golf ball. Vibrant, reddish-orange, a warm, inviting hue. You smell of vine and sun, piquant and fresh. I pierce the skin gently, cutting five thin slices. Now greedy, I don’t even bother to plate you, but I am careful, lifting a slice reverently between my thumb and forefinger. The tang hits my tongue. Sour, zingy, an explosion of sunshine in a bite. Fresh, bright, full. Oh, luscious little treasure, you are no off-season, store-bought placeholder, no hothouse imposter. You are the real deal. The standard by which farm stand and vine-ripened are measured. Juicy mid-July blessing. Sunkissed jewel of summer.
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This put a smile on my face and maybe just a bit of drool on my tongue, lol. Thanks for sharing.
We just picked our first tomatoes of the season!