Text and photos by Lynn Ingram
Every Sunday, our pastor asks the congregation to share prayer concerns and praises—those moments, small or large, that have brought joy or a smile or a renewal of faith in humanity’s goodness.
This morning, when our guest preacher, Donald Davis, asked for the praises, nobody spoke. He said, “Surely someone has a joy to share.”
Well, I thought it might be a sin for no joy to be shared, so I raised my hand.
When the Reverend Davis pointed at me, I blurted, “My tomato plant has a tomato on it!”
Unsurprisingly, that resulted in some friendly congregational tittering.
I didn’t quite tell the truth, though. You probably should be truthful in church. So, I’m remedying that here.
You see, my tomato plant has three tomatoes—or five, if you count those penny-sized ones. Although I have great hopes for them, they haven’t yet qualified for actual tomato status. Further, in the interest of 100 percent honesty, what I should have said was, “My tomato plant has a tomato on it that is turning RED!”
I am thrilled. Almost beyond words. (Except people who know me know that that is a lie; I am never beyond words.)
A homegrown tomato is very possibly one of the reasons that life is worth living. That little almost-red orb out there is cause for celebration, for shouting from the rooftops, very nearly the reason for a parade.
Because what it means—oh, be still my palpitating heart—is that the first tomato sandwich is soon to be consumed.
I feel faint with desire. My level of anticipation is not quantifiable.
When that little tomato turns the appropriate shade of red, I shall ceremonially and tenderly pluck it and place it, somewhat on the order of a shrine, upon my kitchen counter.
I shall then most reverently admire it until my knife slits its ruby skin into slices of juicy heaven.
In preparation for the Sacred First Tomato Sandwich Event, I have bought a fresh loaf of white bread, without which the making of a tomato sandwich is impossible.
Yes, usually I eat the more nutritious whole wheat bread, whose health benefits I acknowledge and endorse. However, the idea of making a tomato sandwich with that brown stuff is beyond travesty, quite close to mortal sin. It simply cannot be done.
Here, I digress down memory lane to another summer, on another island, with another tomato, with my late friend Nina.
I submit that the eating of the summer’s first homegrown tomato sandwich is a holy event. That every such sandwich I shall consume for the rest of my life brings to mind this memory of Nina elevates it nearly to sacrament.
I had called Nina up one day, only to find myself interrupting her as she was eating a tomato sandwich. And standing over the kitchen sink to do it.
There is no other way to eat a tomato sandwich.
As I, at that moment, had a couple of tomatoes blushing on my bushes, Nina and I made a pact: When the precious little globes ripened, she’d come to my house to share the joy of my first tomatoes.
When the glorious day arrived, Nina brought me a gift, a slender and elegant knife made purely for slicing tomatoes. It performed beautifully. Sumptuous slices slid delicately onto a plate.
As I sliced the first tomato, Nina drew a reverent breath. “May I smell it?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied, as we both inhaled the headiness of homegrown.
Nina and I each selected two slices of white bread. Upon those, we spread the perfect amount of mayonnaise (according to our personal preferences; the Mayonnaise Wars would require a whole ‘nother essay). We transferred those lovely tomato slices onto that mayonnaise-slathered bread. We salted and peppered the tomato.
This was the scene: Tomato sandwiches were held tenderly in the trembling hands of women leaning over the kitchen sink.
No chairs were required; no table settings; no table at all. Quivering mouths bit into what surely rivals the manna God delivered to the Israelites. Rivulets of pink tomato-mayonnaise juice dribbled down chins.
“Tomatogasms” ensued.
Nina and I christened that event The Immaculate Consumption.
I intend to repeat that scenario quite soon. I’ll remember the unsurpassing joy that Nina and I shared. I’ll use my perfect tomato knife, which is, quite frankly, one of my most prized possessions. It’s one of the items I’d grab if the house were on fire, because it holds the precious memory of a precious moment with my precious friend.
Good old memories inspire the making of good new memories. Therefore, with what I’m certain is Nina’s blessing, applications are being prayerfully accepted for the event of this year’s First Tomato Sandwich.
And all God’s ‘mater-lovin’ chillun’ said “Amen.”
Forgot one thing. Lynn, ma’am, you’re quite a wordsmith. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your story. Just wanted you to know your skill is appreciated. Write on.
When I started reading this story I almost stopped thinking that it was a bit cheesy. But I soon was fully engaged. To share the joy of a simple tomato seems so basic. But it soon returned me to a time in the not so recent past. I mother, who has passed away, loved tomato sandwich and biscuits. The story of the a wonderful meal with your friend took me back to one of the last mountain trip with mom. She was from Yancey County and even though she lived at the coast the mountains were always home. During her last years when she did not realize I was her son, she stilled had her childhood memories that included tomato biscuits. On a ride up to Roam Mountain we stopped at a small diner for lunch. The only thing on the menu she wanted was a grilled cheese sandwich. I asked the waitress if they could add tomatoes and she just loved it.
Sorry for the long story of my own, but I thank you for the Joy you reminded me of.
I’m so glad that you my story reminded you a tender and important time in your life. I am pleased that you shared your sweet story, and I didn’t find it long at all. I think it’s so important that we all take the time – make the time – to remember and attend to those moments of our lives that brought pure, unadulterated joy. If we are wise, these remembrances may help us to remain on the lookout for more such moments in the days ahead. This reminds of a quote, whose author I cannot locate: “Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away,”
We don’t have tomatoes in our garden this year (blasphemous, I know) but our neighbors do…big fat juicy temptuous Better Boys just hours short of prime picking time. They told us last week they’re leaving early Sunday morning for a short camping trip and asked that we please water their garden while they’re out of town. I just got back from Food Lion; copped a fresh loaf of ultra soft white bread, a new jar of Duke’s and an extra pepper shaker just in case. As soon as I see their pick-up top the hill at the end of our road…
Ah, Ben, you admitted tomato thief, you! I’d be right there with you, plucking those gorgeous globes at the first opportune moment. As it’s now a few days past Sunday, I’m assuming that you’ve passed through the Gates of Tomato Sandwich Glory by now, and I’m thrilled for you. I hope you get a bunch of sandwiches while the neighbors are away.
Great Story!! My wife and I also have a tomato sandwich obsession. Unfortunately we live in a Town of small lots and in our case, almost total shade. Not conducive to tomato growing. We love the pine trees and have yet (in 34 years) to buy a bale of pine straw. Another story. With memories of large gardens past, we are forced to count the days of trips to the Raleigh Farmers Market awaiting the arrival of the first German Johnson’s. A few weeks back, voila, they appeared, we bought ’em and we raced home for that Blessed Event…the first tomato sandwich of the year. Thank you for your story and the memories it brings back!
Oh, Lord, be still, my heart: German Johnsons! You have hit the mother lode for sure. I never knew of those heirloom tomatoes growing up; my mother planted Big Boys and then, later, Better Boys, when that new and improved variety appeared at the feed and seed store where she bought plants. There may have been a Beefsteak or two in some of the later years. Mine this year were Better Boys, although I have, in the past, tried my hand at the German Johnsons and a couple other heirlooms whose names escape me right now. Those names have fallen through the holes in the Swiss cheese that my poor brain has become. Oh, well, they’ll eventually resurface, and some other names will fall through the holes.
Amen! Love a tomato sandwich!
It truly is an “Amen” event. I’m not sure it’s wise to completely trust a person who doesn’t love a tomato sandwich.
Do you happen to be related to Brad?
Amen and amen!!
Another soulmate appears here in the comments. Thank you so much for reading and enjoying, and I second and third and fourth your “amens”!
What a beautiful tribute to a friend and the mighty Southern tomato sandwich.
Why, thank you, kind sir, for the lovely words. Nina was indeed deserving of that tribute – and so many, many more. Quite a gal, she was; she celebrated her 75th birthday by jumping out of an airplane, having been driven to the airport by a neighbor who had a motorcycle.
I’m also glad to hear from another intelligent soul who knows that the tomato sandwich deserves all the tributes and homage we can gather.
Go forth and savor, and may tomato juice dribble merrily down your chin!
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