By Tomato Queen
Nieves’ girlfriend, Tina, was in town for the weekend, and they had emerged from their day in bed to join us for dinner.
They brought several of her last tomatoes over, and I sliced the biggest, ripest one on the spot to serve with walnut oil, sea salt, balsamic, and olive bread.
Because as much as you want the season to linger, it’s fleeting.
I enjoyed their sultry, exhausted, sex-hazed dynamic together, how warm and effusive they were. Feeling uprooted, hearbroken, and road-weary, it was good to be cooking in my friends’ home, with good company, sharing a meal and wine and end-of-season garden tomatoes.
A highlight was overhearing, from the kitchen, what Nieves says to her tomatoes. [Spoken in low tones, in a sexy Honduran accent]:
Hello, my babies. You are so beautiful, so round, keep on blushing, get red for Daddy! You are so close. Keep growing for Daddy. I see you little ones, hiding under that vine. Just a few more days now, maybe we will get more sun. I will nestle you in my palm.
No one can see you crying when you’re cooking in the kitchen.