Me and Marvin Gaye...and a Tomato

A few weeks ago, Mark and I went “pickin’” at his granddad’s garden in the country. I want to pitch a tent in this garden and live off the land for all eternity. It’s beautiful out there and the land produces perfect vegetables. (Unlike my garden. I think it’s about time I throw in the towel with gardening. This year’s crop is not looking too good.) He’s got corn fields, watermelon patches, scuppernong vines, tomatoes, peppers, squash, and cucumbers as far as the eye can see.

I made myself a tomato sandwich the other night with one of the biggest, juiciest tomatoes I’ve ever seen out of Mark’s granddad’s garden. There’s just something so different about the taste, the consistency of a fresh-off-the-vine tomato. It’s like you can almost taste the earth it was grown from. (Okay, I’ll stop there before I sound too much like a hippie.) So I ate this sandwich. And then I sang the tomato a love song. I think you know it. It goes something like this:

Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby
Ain't nothing like the real thing
Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby
Ain't nothing like the real thing


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Just call me Tammi "Tomato" Terrell.