First Tomato

Of the gazillion books I have kept from my children's childhood (because someday there will be grandchildren, right?), a favorite is Rosemary Wells' three-story collection, Voyage to the Bunny Planet.  And our favorite of the three, hands down, was First Tomato.

When the kids were little, their dad was the gardener.  (I only took it up after he died, feeling that it was somehow a way to keep his legacy alive.  I have never regretted that decision.) Of course, we grew tomatoes.  (This is New Jersey.)  The first red tomato was cause for celebration, and part of the celebration was reading Wells' book.

A ruby red tomato is hanging on the vine. 
If my mother didn’t want it, the tomato would be mine.

It smells of rain and steamy earth and hot June sun. 

In the whole tomato garden it’s the only ripe one. 

I close my eyes and breathe in its fat red smell. 

I wish that I could eat it now and never, never tell.

But I save it for my mother without another look.

I wash the beans and shell the peas and watch my mother cook.

I hear my mother calling when the summer winds blow. 

“I’ve made you first tomato soup because I love you so.”

 

So.  First tomato.  And here it is:

It's the one on the right.  I didn't pick it.  I will give it one more day to get really, really red.  And there are more where that came from:

They will all come at once and it will be hard to keep up with them.  I will eat them every day.  And then there will be soup and sauce and paste and sun-dried tomatoes, enough to get me through the winter.

If you can't find the love in this, I simply cannot help you.