Piper picked these this morning. She reached her kid paws into the towering tomato vines and plucked. Happily.
“They’re beauties, aren’t they?” she asked.
“They sure are, P,” I agreed.
We ran our fingers over their smooth skin, inspecting the colors, pressing their ripeness.
“What do we do with them?”
I looked at Piper, studying her deprivation. Surely, the kid’s had a tomato. What kind of a mother am I? Her Daddy has a tomato phobia, it’s true, but I know for a fact that Piper’s enjoyed grape tomatoes in her lunch. I packed them myself.
“You eat them, honey. They’re tomatoes. Fresh ones,” I explained, for good measure. I’ve taught grammar to high school students, too, but that doesn’t mean they remember where to put their commas. Sometimes we have to reteach and repeat.
“Can I eat one?”
“Yep,” I said, nodding my head and popping a pearl tomato into my mouth.
Piper picked out a juicy one. She licked. She nibbled. She broke the skin. She stuffed it in her cheek like a squirrel. Her whole face smiled. Tomato juice dribbled down her chin. Pure delight.
Then she leaned over the trash can and spit the whole thing out. “Yuck! They’re sweet. Like candy!”
And the problem is? Maybe it’s genetic.
piperism 