Ode to a tomato


Ode to a tomatopexels-photo-257794.jpeg

I stare, bewildered, at this un-perfectly round cocktail tomato.

It is exactly the way it is supposed to be, just like all of us.

No need to change the rough patch scraping against my forefingers or alter its soft spot on the underside.

Behold it’s natural beauty:

Red. The rich, deep colour of blood. A red only nature could invent. A red akin to my love of nature’s bounty.

And what of the green stem with its sparse, perfectly spaced top?  A dark green to compliment the red, the juxtaposition of colours in harmony, as nature intended, without trying.

Gently I tug and turn the stem, it gives without a fight, knowing that its job was to be born so that it could be consumed.

Tomato, did you know that your job is also to be admired? Maybe not, dear tomato, maybe not.

For how many of us rush this very process? It is indeed easier to wash, slice and shove the food into our mouths and down our throats, without even once considering their inherent beauty.

Well I am here to tell you that I admire you, tomato.

Oh, your smell. The divine odour which wafts in spurts, a semi-sweet, crisp freshness. The smell somewhere between heaven and earth.

Apple, I am glad that you were the forbidden fruit of Eden.

Leave my tantalizing tomato in the shadows.

Let her glory not be tarnished or her reputation altered.

I think she knows I’m preparing to eat her. Rolling about in my moist palm, slowly back and forth, she gives and molds to the curves and lines of my hand.

Pressing her skin lightly, I feel the soft, juicy spots, waiting to burst with joy on my expectant palette.

Marveling at mother nature’s miraculous creation, I am bewildered at how we could ever doubt our own true beauty.

The tomato does not deny her nature. She does not ask, “Oh God, why didn’t you make me more like a banana?”

She knows her origin and her roots.  She feels the deep connection with the soil and earth which birthed her, never dreaming to ask and wonder, why she is who she is.

Just like the tomato, in all of her splendour,  does not question her raison d’être, she simply is. she simply knows. she simply feels life.

Can we all come a bit closer to the tomato? pexels-photo-373019.jpeg



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