Red, round, and Ripe All Over

Every August brings some predictable attitude changes to our household. By the time the “dog days of summer” arrive, my husband and I are tired of heat, bugs, and yard work. At this point in the year, we’ve given up on our humid patio and simply watch the lazy evening sun

sets from the comfort of our air-conditioned living room. In short, both of us are kind of “over” the whole summertime thing.

Only the garden, which my husband so lovingly tends all year, decides that the end of August is the perfect time to madly produce. As if on cue, all the plants in our little vegetable plot go into overdrive. The results are nothing short of a daily harvest.

Tomatoes have been a staple in our garden for as long as we’ve had a mortgage. After decades of trial and error, my husband has learned the secret of sowing the best varieties in order to ensure a bumper crop. We love having all the bounty and giving away the extra food, if only our relatives were more enthusiastic.

“Oh, tomatoes,” my son said when he came over for Sunday dinner and surveyed the full counters in the kitchen.

“Yes, your father has been harvesting them every morning,” I replied, while taking an appetizer from the refrigerator. “Here, have some dip.”

He eyed my offering with suspicion “Is this that bacon and tomato stuff?”

“Well, yes. The recipe is called BLT dip-to taste like the sandwich. You always said you liked it,” I reminded him.

“I liked the bacon,” my son corrected, “but I always picked the tomatoes out and left them on my plate.”

“Why don’t you try it again, now that you’re all grown up? Sometimes our tastes change.”

My son took a tentative scoop and then shook his head. He pushed the dish towards me.

“Nope,” he said, and then added thoughtfully, “why don’t you skip the tomatoes when you make that, Mom? The whole thing would be better if you just didn’t add them.”

“But then it wouldn’t be BLT dip,” I protested. “It would only be B dip, just bacon.”

“Exactly,” he said.

After dinner, I tried to send some produce home with him.

“Why don’t you take some fresh tomatoes and give them to your co-workers at the office?” I suggested.

A mixture of horror and disgust crossed my son’s face. “Are you kidding? I like my job and the people that I see every day. What person wants to have a tomato on their desk, just sitting there all day? Then they have to take it home. Yuck!”

When my son pulled out of our driveway, I turned to my husband.

“Now what are we going to do with all the tomatoes?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “New neighbors just moved in down the street. We’ll welcome them with a bit of garden goodness.”

“But what if they don’t like tomatoes?” I asked.

“Well, they’ll either eat them or they can find a new friend and share with them.”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Tomatoes,” my husband boosted, “are a wonderful way to welcome folks. Nothing beats getting something fresh. And if they really hate them, then they can just throw them at someone.”

“Careful,” I said, “with a gift that keeps on giving, you might just be that someone!”