I remember the quiet confidence in her voice as she handed me a basket of her sister's garden tomatoes, "try these... they're delicious."
I remember telling her that I really don't like tomatoes very much. In fact, I hate them. "They'll be wasted on me," I said.
I remember her insistence, "just try them."
I remember my hesitation as I tasted one for the first time.
I remember how the bright, sweet, fresh, red flavour made my eyes widen in surprise.
I remember thinking, "so this is what a tomato is supposed to taste like."
I remember waiting in anticipation each year thereafter for her sister's tomato harvest.
I remember the generous bounty they shared with me, year after year.
I remember cutting up the perfectly ripened tomatoes for salads, squeezing the plum tomatoes with my bare hands to make the most delicious sauce, and sauteing the cherry tomatose with onions for a too-yummy goat cheese appetizer.
I remember her as the person who made me love tomatoes.
I remember telling her that I really don't like tomatoes very much. In fact, I hate them. "They'll be wasted on me," I said.
I remember her insistence, "just try them."
I remember my hesitation as I tasted one for the first time.
I remember how the bright, sweet, fresh, red flavour made my eyes widen in surprise.
I remember thinking, "so this is what a tomato is supposed to taste like."
I remember waiting in anticipation each year thereafter for her sister's tomato harvest.
I remember the generous bounty they shared with me, year after year.
I remember cutting up the perfectly ripened tomatoes for salads, squeezing the plum tomatoes with my bare hands to make the most delicious sauce, and sauteing the cherry tomatose with onions for a too-yummy goat cheese appetizer.
I remember her as the person who made me love tomatoes.