A gardener’s manicure

I want to preface this story by assuring you that, in my normal life, I do not make it obvious to the naked eye that I bear an unabashed adoration for the perfect tomato. I have a tattoo, but it’s not visible unless you know where to look, and it is not a design of anything edible. I generally don’t wear tomato-decorated clothing unless I’ve been eating spaghetti. And I don’t even own tomato-red lipstick.

So, it was utterly unexpected when, apropos of absolutely nothing, the woman giving me a manicure recently suddenly announced that, for the second year in a row, she had planted tomatoes.

“I planted last year, but they did nothing,” she said. “This year, I thought they would be the same, so I didn’t worry about them, but now it’s been so hot that there are too many.”

“So, you have a lot?” I asked, careful to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

“I get up in the morning, and I have to water them, and by the night, when I get home, there are too many to eat!”

“Oh,” I said, trying to imagine how this could possibly be a problem.

“I ask my father to help me, but he says they are all mine,” she said. “I have the very small ones…”

“Cherries,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “And the big ones for sandwiches.” She held out a cupped hand to give me a sense of size.

“Beefsteak?”

“Yes,” she said. “Beefsteak.”

She lapsed into silence, then. She didn’t mention tomatoes further, not as she finished my nails, nor as they dried, nor as I tipped her.

But I will always think it’s cool that, out of the blue, she brought up tomatoes.