The First Tomato

There’s something almost ceremonial about picking the first tomato of the year.

It was warm that morning, the kind of damp, breathy heat that tells you August has arrived. I ducked into the polytunnel to water the plants and there it was. Plump, red, and ready. No fanfare, no trumpet of angels, just a ripe fruit waiting quietly on the vine.

I picked it and held it like a jewel. You’d think I’d grown rubies the way I admired it. I called Glen to come and see. “Look!” I said. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a tomato,” he said, but he smiled. He gets it.

We sliced it in half and ate it standing at the counter. Still warm from the sun, sweet and sharp and tasting of everything I love about this place. It’s never just a tomato. It’s proof that the season is working, that the seeds I tucked into soil months ago have made good on their promise.

It’s not the best tomato I’ll grow. But it’s the one I’ll remember.