The tomatoes have arrived at the farmer’s market. I have been waiting since the end of last year’s tomato season for this day. They aren’t in full take-over mode yet—filling every booth with mounds of ripe red mountains of plump summery goodness—but they have definitely made their grand entrance.
I went to the market with my office mate, Jess. We were ecstatic when the bustling crowds parted to reveal a red-and-white checkered table full of the red gems or summer that we have been waiting for. We ran with our elbows out to the pile of goodies and began squeezing the tomatoes in order to collect the perfect bounty.
I wanted to wait until I got home to bite into one of these. I had big plans to slice it up, salt it and eat it while sitting on my sunny porch and listening to Janis Joplin sing Summertime. This is all well and good in my ideal summer world, but my will power is well…powerless in the presence of a farmer’s market tomato. I ate it at the office, within an hour of its purchase. I ate it like an apple while sitting at my desk, checking email and waiting for the server to save my files. It was still pretty awesome.