Gordy sleeps with his tomatoes. At least that is what he told me. That way he can feel what the tomatoes are experiencing. Are they getting too cold? Too wet? Maybe too lonely? He plants them six feet apart. His tomatoes are plentiful and he shares them graciously.

I horde my tomatoes. The are precious as gold, and more rare. I just can’t fathom how anyone could have too many tomatoes, that there are enough extras to sell at the Farmer’s Market or share with friends. Call me greedy, but every last tomato that doesn’t get eaten on bruschetta or BLT or grilled cheese gets turned into sauce — liquid gold. Could I possibly have too much sauce? I don’t think so. Store-bought sauce tastes like nothing (organic sauce is a bit more tasty, but not as good as my home canned sauce).

August is tomato season. Those things they sell in the store the rest of the year are NOT tomatoes. I never liked tomatoes when I was young. I remember my mother and grandmother going nutso crazy coo-coo when tomatoes started to come into season. I didn’t get it (I must have been jaded by those superball-like out of season tomatoes).  My mom would eat tomatoes until she broke into a rash. Big slices of tomatoes were served up for dinner. And I turned up my nose.

Then I married a gardener, sampled the joy of a real tomato and saw the light. I am actually able to discern the difference between the taste and texture of different heirloom varieties.  And despite the fact that “real” tomato lovers don’t do cherry tomatoes, I eat them by the handful (to my husband’s chagrin, he calls them exploding eyeballs).

August is good eatin’. Besides tomatoes in glorious abundance, we have sweet corn. Another thing that people go nutso crazy coo-coo for when it is in season. The husband insists that sweet corn must be consumed fresh — he doesn’t pick it off the stalk until the water is boiling. Stalk to stomach in less than 5 minutes. Pure and simple food bliss.