This wouldn’t ordinarily be a big deal. After all, it is still tomato season in California. I’ve been breakfasting on tomatoes since they showed up at the markets this year. In fact, this time of year, it’s not odd in the slightest for me to have more tomatoes on hand than I could possibly eat before they burst, ripely, in the bowls where Fatemeh and I store them.
But these? These were the first two tomatoes off my plants in the wine barrels.
No, really. The first two tomatoes I managed to half-assedly nurture to health in California. It was a momentous occasion, people. In fact, it was, perhaps, the best possible way to kick off a Monday.
Were they the best-flavored tomatoes I’ve ever eaten? No, they were not. They tasted like they’d been stressed throughout their growing season, as they have been. And they were awfully runty. But you know what? All things considered, they were pretty damn good.
It seems only fitting that I’m writing this post on my apartment patio, sitting with my feet propped up next to the card table that served as my back porch table for so long in Iowa City. It’s a warm, summery night here, which has been a long time coming after an unusually foggy summer. I think I just got a mosquito bite or three. And I’ve got a glass of Templeton Rye on the table next to me. There’s much the same in this scenario as two and a half years ago, and yet, there’s so much that has changed.
So, sure. Maybe I didn’t have tomatoes in July like I would have had in Iowa. But sometimes? Even if it requires a wait, life gives you exactly what you need, just when you’re meant to get it.