Friday morning I harvested some of our heirloom tomatoes. Husband Cliff and I put them in a box and drove from Santa Cruz south to North Hills, California, to give them to my elderly mother while we visit her. My dear departed father absolutely loved a good tomato -- toward the end of his life he dreamed of them. He also loved the poet Keats, so on his 85th birthday I parodied one of his poems and called it Ode to Dad's Tomato Dream:
He dreams ofA thick, red, ripe tomato slice on
A bagel thickly smeared with cream cheese
A sprinkle of kosher salt.
Aaahhhh....
With whom can he share the wonder of his slumber's fruit
Whence in the very temple of Delight
His strenuous tongue
Burst Joy's tomato against his palate fine?
(apologies to Keats)
The poem (with photo of my father) still hangs on my mother's refrigerator. The tomatoes we brought, in honor of my father, were part of this morning's breakfast. Cliff sliced an Orange Russian 117. Mmmm...yes, tomatoes are indeed a fruit, so sweet.
Like memories.
1 comment:
Here in the southern Australia we are planting tomatoes now. I bought 5 plants at the local market last week and got them in. I don't know what sort they are, I forgot to ask so it'll be a surprise. Your post got my mouth watering.
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