The off-and-on-again blog of Ron Mohring, whose plate is almost always overfilled.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
No, it's not my drag name--nor anyone else's that I know of, though now that I ponder, it wouldn't be a bad one. I'm referring to my windowsill tomatoes, two of which are nearly ripe. The smaller has a prominent nipple and is about the diameter of a nickel. The larger is a day or two behind in ripeness, and the diameter of a quarter.
I will eat them very slowly, using the tiniest sterling dollhouse-scale cutlery. No. Though I would if I had some. What is the proper way to eat a miniature tomato you've grown from mail-ordered heirloom seed on your office windowsill? That sounded boastful. Like a tomato. Full of robust braggadocio. Blaring about its own luscious gifts, its juicy contents, skin so ready to pop. If this plant could talk, it would bark like a dog in a Brooklyn window: "HEY!"