Groom came home last night with a pile of fresh tomatoes. I was feeling slightly under the weather yesterday, most likely because I took on a new project that is demanding a great deal of my time (which I love) and because I spent one night sitting up late with Little Miss Bounce a Quarter who left for Bozeman (which I hate) and because I was out late the the other night visiting with two old friends and ended up watching Kate Bush vs Cyndi Lauper at Battle of the Bands at Empire (which I loved). So, in all, I deserve no sympathy for requiring a nap in the afternoon and maybe an early bedtime.
In other words, Groom is a saint.
He picked up the tomatoes at Bow Street Market. He didn’t look to see where the tomatoes were from, but according to Bow Street’s website, the market carries tomatoes from Olivia’s Garden and this picture was on their Facebook page on June 6, so I’m going with that because I am the laziest blogger ever and come on, hasn’t it been proven time and time again that bloggers aren’t real journalists, in part because they don’t get paid, which just gives me license to research nothing and prove even less? I have a degree in creative writing (#truth). My navel has never looked so intriguing.
I was so excited when I came downstairs after my evening nap (see “Groom is a saint” above), I yelled, “It’s tomato time!”
And Groom was all like, “Wellll…. they are probably hydroponic and not from the fiel–” But I was gone, dancing around, clapping my hands, and laughing, chee chaw chee chaw.
I was reminded of a story my friend Don used to tell. He was an engineer for a drilling company in Seattle and oversaw these crazy huge projects all over the country. During one of these projects–I want to say it was in Provo, Utah, because it makes it funnier for me and you’ll see why in a moment–he had a crew of fellas who would ask at lunchtime, “Boss. Is it taco time?”
Don would say no, keep working, etc. And then, at the right time he would answer in his deepest voice, which is like a cross between Benedict Cumberbatch without the gravel or accent and the movie guy, “Yuuup…it’s taco time.” And everyone would rejoice like minstrels.
When he told this story, I always assumed it was a crew of Mexicans and I would think, “Wow, he’s so racist to find that funny.”
It was years before I realized Taco Time is a chain of restaurants and the funniest part was his voice. So, who’s the racist now, huh? I demand he tell me it’s taco time on a regular basis. I’m sure he just loves that.
Note to self: Remember to stop asking Don to say Taco Time.
Note to self II: Remember to ask Don to say “Yuuup…it’s tomato time” just once before remembering to stop asking him to say Taco Time.
So, it’s tomato time. (“Wellll…. they are probably hydroponic and not from the fiel–” Shut up Groom!)
If you’re a tomato enthusiast (I owe a dollar for even trying to say that), I don’t have to tell you how fabulous fresh tomatoes are. They are an entirely different vegetable…fruit…veget–fruit than the tomatoes you pick up at Hannaford, even the vine hothouse whatevers. A fresh tomato is ugly and weird but still so beautiful and juicy and sweet and they smell like summer. I don’t eat them like an apple because that completely freaks me out, but you could. You totally could.
For supper, we ate those sweet and yummy treats with some olive oil, a bit of Annie’s Shiitake & Sesame dressing, and salt, and pepper, along with quinoa salad, also from Bow Street, and grilled zucchini, summer squash, and portabella mushrooms, because I think we all know how much I love mushrooms.
Caveat: According to Groom, the tomatoes are expensive. I forget to mention things like that. But, produce, especially local produce, can be expensive. I looked up average prices of groceries, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, and a casual glance shows me that, without the cost of meat in our budget, the added price of local produce makes sense, especially in this DINK* household. I would never suggest you avoid local produce (it really is better), but it’s something to keep in mind if you’re having these tomatoes with a side of sirloin.
Mmmmmm…. steak. I am the worst vegan ever.
*Double Income, No Kids. I started to look into a nice link for that acronym but am now profoundly disturbed by some of the opinions and thoughts about what being a DINK means. (And, yes, by all means, I see the humor in that sentence.) This blog post relays the following story. There are so many depressing statements in this, I couldn’t possibly link it without commentary. I mean, come on.
...a woman in Birmingham, Ala., shared her surprise and dismay that friends were unsupportive when she and her husband told them they planned not to have children. “Too many conversations, painful moments and emotional emails to recount,” she wrote, “but the statement we feel best sums it all up was when a very close couple told us that they did not see us in their lives anymore as we were making the ‘unnatural choice.’ ” She said she and her husband have since found solace in charity work and activities like a barbecue competition team.
Solace in barbecue competitions and charity work? As my friend Sara’s son would say, “Sigh.”