Tomato season. It’s always been a favorite. When they were fresh from the garden, there was always a plate of them on the table. Daddy always grew both yellow (which were maybe really orange, but tastier than most of the orange ones I find recently) and red. Mom never dressed them, just sliced them and put them out.
We all always waited until the meal was over to dive in, er, pass the plate. It was one of the few times that gluttony was encouraged at our house!
To this day, my favorite dinner is corn on the cob with tomatoes sliced onto the buttery plate. It’s a delightful indulgence, throughout which I can be heard murmuring, “mmm, mmm, mmm.” It’s both grace and a paean of praise and gratitude. “Blessed be the Earth that grows the food!” And the hands that till the soil and the hands that serve it and the energy the food imparts to the work of the world.
I think tomatoes taste like life. They taste like the sun and the soil and the rain that grows them. And those little sun-gold varieties? oh, yeah! Rub off the dirt and go, giving thanks all the way!