Filed under: Food Writing
I suppose it’s human nature to love that which you cannot have. In my case, this usually extends to all things relating to cows, which produce magical milk products that render my stomach useless. However, every August, I am visited by the nagging sensation that I am missing out on something other than brie, gelato, and whole milk.
That thing is a tomato.
One of my best friends is legitimately allergic to the things and so when she says she can’t eat them, it’s true. My reasons are more complicated. Quite simply, the texture of a raw tomato turns my stomach. I can eat them grilled, toasted, roasted, and cooked in every which way. But what I really yearn for is the ability to take a bite out of one of those ripe Jersey tomatoes everyone won’t shut the fuck up about without feeling the need to retch. ‘
Tis the season for tomato worship and every Tom, Dick, and Harry seems to be holding some kind of festival showing off their seasonal crop. As a foodie, it feels criminal to stand by and watch as people lovingly salt tender red skins and eat heirlooms like apples. When I fantasize about what I’m missing, I turn to Pablo Neruda to express the inexpressible.
