From his demeanor, a stranger might have thought he’d discovered a priceless ruby in our back yard.
I knew better. It was something far better.
“Yes, I saw it this morning. I forgot to tell you,” I said, shrugging with embarrassment, bordering on mortification.
How could I forget? How did I manage to fail to communicate something so important, so compelling, so … so … so divine? How on earth did I avoid racing into the house, yelling at the top of my lungs?
“The first tomato is turning red! The first tomato is turning red!”
I should have shouted it with the same urgency as Paul Revere bellowing “The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sound the trumpet. The tomatoes are coming!
Ring the bell. The tomatoes are coming!
Praise the Lord in heaven. The first tomato in our back yard garden - a gorgeous fist-sized orb, big enough for two whole sandwiches - is ripening, ripening, almost ripe.
I salivated just writing that sentence.
And for two agonizingly long days, I watched and waited. Waited and watched, all but holding my breath, lest something like a pecking bird or plundering deer come between me and the first tomato of the season.
Finally, after what seemed liked a month but was actually about 48 hours, I could wait no more. It was time.
I seized the day. And the precious tomato. Carpe tomatum or something like that.
Feigning nonchalance, I deposited it on the kitchen counter, beside the coffee pot, where the man of the house was pouring his first cup of the morning.
We exchanged glances. The corners of our mouths curled. I let out a deep, anticipatory sigh.
“Tonight’s the night,” I said. “Nothing’s coming between us and a BLT.”
Of course, a little shopping was required. There was no bread in our house worthy of the season’s first tomato. I pledged to buy some on my afternoon trip to town.
The man of the house didn’t trust me to remember. After all, I’d forgotten to mention the ruby, er, tomato in our back yard.
“I’ve got the bread,” he said in a brief telephone call from the store. From his tone, a stranger might have thought it was Neil Armstrong calling from the moon to say, “The Eagle has landed.”
I knew better. It was something far better.
And so it came to pass that at 6:27 p.m. on Tuesday, June 1, I walked purposefully to the kitchen counter, gleaming knife in hand. Within seconds, I was all but drooling as the tomato’s firm flesh was revealed.
It was a thing of beauty, that first slice. It was a work of art, that first sandwich.
Crisp cold lettuce and a little fresh basil, both picked that very morning from that same garden. Freshly cooked bacon. A slice of onion straight from Vidalia. Mayo and white bread, always white bread.
We ate pretty much in silence, save the occasional moans of ecstasy. I stared reverently at the last bite before popping it into my mouth.
“Ahhhh!” I thought. Life is good.
Regular readers of this column may recall that this is not the first time I have been moved to write about the wonder of tomatoes. I do not apologize for returning to a topic of such magnificence. Shakespeare wrote more than 150 sonnets, mostly about love and beauty. I’m no Shakespeare, but I won’t live long enough to say all there is to say about tomatoes.
There is just one problem. June 2 was really early for the first tomato. So far, there’s been no second hint of red, not even a blush of pink, on our tomato vines.
If Shakespeare were here, I think he would take quill in hand and write a sonnet: “Waiting is such sweet sorrow.” Or something like that.
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