I’m Fixin’ To Eat The Last Tomato

I’m fixin’ to eat the last tomato.

There it was, lying on the window sill over the kitchen sink, where it had been for three days now.

It was special because it really was the last one. My tomato plants had played out early this year due to the recent hot spell we have endured.

I was a little late getting them out, around the last of April, and they looked great toward the end of June, with lots of tomatoes on them toward the bottom of the plants, but it stayed so hot for so long that the blooms on the upper part of the plants wouldn’t set, so now I had picked the last one, and it was ready to be eaten.
I could tell by the deep red color of the skin and the feel of it that it was at the peak of ripeness and knew it would be my last taste of a home-grown one until next year.

There was just one thing, I had noticed my wife had her eye on it too and I knew she would make me feel real bad if I ate that tomato. If I ate it she would probably say something like, “I hope you enjoyed that last tomato,” with a lot of sarcasm in her tone. Or, she could say, “I really would have enjoyed a taste of that last tomato.”

I was standing there staring at it with my mouth watering and actually had a slicing knife in my hand when I heard her coming toward the kitchen. Without missing a beat I grabbed a peach out of the fruit basket and began to peel it.
Now I knew I had to work fast if I wanted that last tomato, so I came up with myself a plan.

I figured a lot of home gardeners were in the same fix as I was because my favorite roadside vegetable vendor had been selling a lot of tomatoes.

At this time of the year he was getting in tomatoes from the mountains up in Tennessee, where they come in later than they do here, and they were pretty tasty, not like ones out of your garden, but close.

Before I left the house I memorized every detail of the appearance of my last tomato, and with the color and shape of it implanted in my mind, I headed down the road to find my friend at his vegetable stand.

I must have gone through about two bushels of his tomatoes before I found the one I wanted. It was almost identical to the one lying on my window sill.

With my prize replacement in hand I headed toward home with my taste buds humming.

When I got home the house was empty, and to my great dismay so was the kitchen window sill. I looked around for clues and sure enough the cutting board was still on the counter with the telltale signs of the recent slicing of a ripe tomato.

I was too late, but I consoled myself with my replacement tomato by slicing it up and sprinkling it with salt and pepper.

I figured if I put enough mayonnaise on the bread I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, so I slathered so much mayonnaise on that I’ll probably be fixing to end up in the Mayo Clinic.