Yesterday I did something that, during my twenty-six years, I have never done.
I ate a tomato.
I don’t mean I ate a bit of a tomato, as I would normally tolerate in a sandwich hidden amongst other ingredients; I mean ate a whole tomato, as you would a peach or a nectarine. I’ve spent my life avoiding doing this; tomatoes were always third on the list of definite no-nos right behind sprouts and cauliflower. At least sprouts and cauliflower have the decency to look as unappealing as they taste; as for tomatoes, their red juiciness belies a viscious sour core that makes my stomach churn.
So how did I manage to eat one, whole and without wincing? Cherry Tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes are like a condensed tomato, with the sourness turned to zero and the sweetness turned to seven. After a careful weening stage of a couple of years, I’ve reached the stage now where I can’t make a sandwich without them. Now, I’m a fully fledged tomato eater, although admittedly the one I ate yesterday was of particularly high standard and free of the inner green gunk I usually associate with tomatoes.
And with this revelation, I’m off on my summer holidays, so don’t expect any posts for a while.