I’m stuck. Or rather, my tomatoes are. The farmer’s markets are exploding with their end-of-summer bounty, my basil plant is going like gangbusters (don’t you love that word, gangbusters?!), and my kitchen is begging for fresh tomatoes. And my tomato plant is just sitting out in the garden, producing tiny green globes at the world’s slowest pace, mocking me.
Tomatoes might be the most perfect fruit. They go in salads, in drinks, in sauces, in condiments. Tomato red thrills on cars, as a shade of lipstick, and who can forget the thrill of shimmying on a red dress for the first time? All women should own a red dress.
My grandpa was the master of tomatoes. I have vivid memories of helping him plant them, of watering them, of picking fruit for dinner, and even of their perfect, homegrown taste that no grocery store tomato has even been able to replicate. But I don’t know his secret – I’m afraid I never will – and so we sit, my tomatoes and I. But this week, in their honor – their stubborn, angry plant honor – we’ll be talking tomatoes. From dressing to eating to drinking (oh yes, the drinking) it’s all tomatoes all the time.
And I hope by this time next week, I’ll have a positive report from the garden. Ideally including the word gangbusters.