All I need to know of heaven
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.”































