If only I liked tomatoes, I could probably turn this photograph of these beautiful red tomatoes into a wonderfully witty and heartwarming essay about the coming of spring, and the bounty of the earth, and blah blah blah.
Unfortunately, I hate raw tomatoes almost as much as I hate liver, and quite a bit more than I hate brussel sprouts. I don't mind them cooked into sauces, as long as they're highly seasoned, and I can choke down the occasional stewed tomato if it presents in a dish, but raw tomatoes no. Not now. Not ever. Not even a single bite. I don't even like cutting them. I can't possibly wax poetic about a bowl of fresh tomatoes. Don't get me wrong, I'll certainly enjoy the 73,386 gallons of homemade tomato sauce that my husband is preparing this evening to restock our freezer, but that is because once they are cooked they lose their resemblance to their hated and feared predecessor. I think George Carlin had it right with an old skit of his - in a peculiar eery voice he intoned "they're not finished yet, they're still in the larval stage." And they really are too, when you think about it, all slippery and slimy inside, not to mention that strange raw taste *shudder*.
Still, it's a nice picture, isn't it?