Tomatoes

I think I am tomatoed out for a while; the idea of placing a slice of tomato on my tongue and savoring the moment no longer appeals to me. I see a tomato on a vine and think, “Oh, another tomato.” Not that I still don’t like them – I am not to the “Oh, another tomato I have to eat” phase. Well, maybe I am. Yes, I am. I have been denying it. Odd how the truth comes out when you let your fingers have a moment of keyboard power*:

Stupid, stupid tomatoes that encourage sores in my mouth and diarrhea but I eat them anyway because they make me need, need, need their flavor. Juicy, pulpy tomato freshness . . . ambrosia for a while. Stupid stupid tomatoes

* A related manifestation of the Fist of Death Syndrome.