I'm sorry. I know, I've been distant. It's been a while now. We used to be so close, you and I. I loved the way you were simultaneously tart, sweet, and savory. I loved your lush, red, meaty flesh, jewel-like and glistening. You added moisture and zing to an otherwise unexciting
sandwich. You added vibrant color to a drab salad. You added the feeling of freshness to an overcooked taco. There was really nothing I felt couldn't be improved upon by the addition of you.But then I was pregnant for a while. Your once-luscious flesh felt mealy and tepid. Your skin seemed too thin and sinewy - always rolling up and getting in the way, or preventing my teeth from breaking through and thus causing them to mash you rather than achieve a tidy bite. Your watery insides seemed too leaky, making your neighbors soggy. And then there are those squishy little jelly-covered seeds, squirreling around in my mouth or crawling through my pasta like weevils. Your once-beloved flavor became all wrong, a zest out of place on an otherwise comfortable grilled cheese, a fruit flavor among vegetables (you have masqueraded to many as a vegetable; I knew the truth, but loved you anyway). I began to favor the firmer and more subtle avacado, the zesty red pepper, the crisp romaine.
I thought it didn't mean anything, my cheating, at first, and assumed it wouldn't last long. When no longer pregnant I figured I just needed time alone. It was winter, after all, and you really were mealy and flavorless, a sawdusty February version of your July self. I anticipated summer, planted you in May, waited anxiously for the day when I could harvest you from my own garden, taste the gloriousness that I remembered from two summers previous, and re-ignite our old love and passion, for a second honeymoon together.
It just didn't happen the way I imagined. I tried. I really did. Early Girl, Willamette, Yellow Pear. I made a valiant attempt with my previous favorite, the Cherokee Purple. Beautiful, but the same spark just wasn't there. I had a wild but short fling with the Brandywine. I even entertained the Striped Roman and a yellow heirloom. For a short while I thought it was happening. But really, I was fooling myself. A few of you fell to the ground, uneaten, sometimes. I shamefully secreted you to the compost bin, and felt guilty.
Today I was in the grocery store and there you were looking up at me as you always have. I regarded you for a moment, remembering that I had none of you at home. You have long been a constant staple in my kitchen; I would never be without you or you without me. But... looking at you and considering today, I decided to face the truth: I have no need of you right now. I just... I'm focusing on other things in my palette. I just need some space. I think... I think... I think I've fallen out of love with you. So here's to hoping someday things will turn around for us. But for now...
...Goodbye...
3 comments:
You are so funny. I understand this pain and confusion. I left garlic, tomato, hot peppers & salt when my mother died and now 6 years later am only creeping back an interest.
This is odd.
I have always despised tomatoes, even though I've tried time and time again (and loaded you with Ranch, in the hopes of slowly gaining an appreciation by smothering you with the goodness of Hidden Valley). But then last Friday, at an inservice, I had a slice in my salad--and went back for more. It was delicious! Maybe I'll keep Tomatoes company while you have your space. Let me know when you want to trade back.
Sad! But maybe not. Skye and Teh-MAH-tow have been together as long as I can remember.
Like you, I gave up poetry a couple of years ago because it started to have too much of a nasty taste in my mouth.
Making room for something else, aren't we?
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