My grandparents had the greenest thumbs in California. I can still picture their lush garden filled with rose bushes, various trees of avocado, persimmon, plum and citrus. The one thing they didn’t grow were vegetables. There was one exception: the tomato. Being a young child, I didn’t care for veggies of any kind. My older sister had a deep hatred of tomatoes and because she hated them, so did I. I refused to eat the big red fruit in any form unless it was a sauce surrounding a great meatball.
In the late summer, my grandparents gave me a task of pulling weeds that surrounded the hot house tomatoes. My grandfather picked one from the vine and bit into it as if it were an apple. I was horrified that he would boldly eat the flesh of what I thought was a vegetable. He sat down next to me and said, “Just try it. A homegrown tomato is nothing like a store bought one. You’ll never know unless you try. Just try it once for me and I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” He picked a cherry tomato and handed it to me, “This is a good size for your first one.” He smiled knowingly and placed the little red devil into my hand. With great trepidation I popped the whole thing in my mouth. I tried to get it over with as quickly as possible. I didn’t want him to see my face, I had been defeated. Looking up at him, I simply asked if I may please have another. He smiled and said, “You can have as many as you like.”
I now have a small garden of my own and grow tomatoes with great pride. I take the same care as my grandparent’s did. At the end of the season, I pickle the green tomatoes before they turn and remember my grandmother canning everything that grew in their garden. I didn’t realize as a four year old, how that day would give me a love of growing things. My sister still doesn’t eat tomatoes and all I can say is she doesn’t know what she’s missing.
