I’ve tasted many in my long life,
from gardens, from markets
farm and super.
Red, yellow, pink, and even striped.
Mottled purple, orange.
Large, small, round oblong,
oval San Marzanos, touted as superior.
Canned, frozen, dried and, above all, fresh.
But none compare to that bite I took
of a newly sun-ripened globe
plucked from one of the two plants in our
garden, still smelling of the vine.
My father held it out to me.
I rejected it at first—and the idea of
eating directly from the garden,
“No, that’s for squirrels,” I thought.
“Where’s the salt?” I asked.
My father smiled, held it out again.
“Try it.”
My small teeth punctured the warm, tender
outer skin. Juice dripped over my lip onto my chin,
as my tongue directed soft tomato flesh
deeper into my mouth. I chewed,
swallowed, smiled.
Dad took a bite too. We took the
rest inside. He divided it, drizzled the
chunks with oil, sprinkled salt,
handed me a piece of bread,
and we continued lunch.


© by Joan Leotta.
Used with the author’s permission.