Tomatoes Made Me Brave
When I was seven, Mama bit into a fresh tomato and the juice dribbled down her chin. “Mmm,” she said. She offered me a taste. “Good. And good for you.”
I puckered up my face. The mix of slime and seeds and skin looked like ooze from a smashed bug. From that day forward I kept a safe distance from tomatoes.
When I was fifty, I married a man who adored them fresh from the garden. So, wearing rubber gloves and puckering my face, I sliced them into pretty wedges for my sweetheart.
When I was fifty-five, I realized my crimson nemesis kicked up the flavor in spaghetti sauce. I hacked them into quarters — for easy identification — and left them behind in the pot when I served myself.
When I was sixty, I diced them into pea-sized cubes. They snorkeled incognito in my chili. If I accidentally spooned up an offender, I gulped it straight down my gullet, bypassing taste buds.
When I was sixty-four and out for lunch, I ordered a mysterious dish called vegetarian loaf. A suspect blood-red glop crowned the entrée on my plate. Was it my veggie enemy? I hesitated, but the aromas of thyme, basil, and oregano mesmerized me, diminishing the existential threat in those tomatoes. I scooped up a forkful along with mushrooms and spinach. Acidic tang tangoed with the smoky flavor of portobellos on my tongue. My God. Surely the angels serve this dish in Heaven. After six decades, I transcended slime, seeds, and skin.
Today, tomatoes. Tomorrow, Everest.
