"I used to not like tomatoes, but I made myself eat 'em, now I like 'em."
One of the first conversations that I've had with my sister-in-law's boyfriend John was the product of an awkward effort to fill the air with anything other than the sound of forks and knives on plates at Dixie Crossroads in Florida. I like to speak for myself, preferring to refrain from making any judgment about people's personalities, abilities, intentions, or beliefs, but I can say with at least 50% certainty (100% if you remove the other party) that both John and I hardly meet the criteria for an aptitude of social graces. In fact, I've come to concede that the specific amino acid chain that codes for that gene is painfully absent in my DNA, or that I've failed in my heretofore lifelong quest to homeschool myself in the art.
"Yes. I wish I did. They're so healthy. It's weird because I like a lot of tomato products: marinara, ketchup, pico de gallo, restaurant salsa ... not the thick-and-chunky kind-- have you ever noticed that every single salsa offered at grocery stores are thick-and-chunky? You know, down the aisles?"
"Yeah."
Forks and knives.
Any human might label this conversation as a quintessential model of insignificant smalltalk, assuming that I could force a human to humor me long enough to label it at all, but I didn't foresee until quite recently that this conversation would begin a sequence of events leading to a complete transformation from my submission to a bland, ball-and-chain existence of "should-do" into a mysterious, slightly frightening, yet irreversible inclination toward "want-to-do."
When reflecting on our memories of events past, we tend to place emphasis, possibly undue, on the memories that come readily to mind. I'm certain, however, that this particular exchange sparked an endeavor to "like" tomatoes, and a quest whose consequences, I hope, will not completely wreck my life.
Foolishly, I visited my local grocery store. I've bought so many good-looking tomatoes that I could have had another boring-yet-reasonable bond yielding 5% interest in their place, and afforded perhaps a few Cubans in my later years when I decide I'm enough of an old fart to enjoy tobacco and not worry about the health risks, or perhaps even welcome them; but instead, I've bit into oodles of vapid vessels of acidic goop while unsuccessfully attempting to rewire my cortex to judge the slimy experience as gratifying.
Then one day, my addiction to NPR became... fruitful, if you'll excuse the pun. They had a special (I can't help it; I call programs specials) about a guy who spent a year or so tasting tomatoes, and his disdain for supermarket tomatoes pulled the chain on the lightbulb over my head that's been disconnected since majoring in philosophy in college. For the first time, I was grateful for my otherwise-dreaded hour-long commute to a job in a demanding, sometimes inglorious career field that I had thought was God-ordained. I listened to this guy spout off about how these tomatoes are so cheap to grow, and have such ridiculous shelf life, that they have lost their poor tomato souls and have become a fake, mummified, tasteless version of what was once a staple of life experience. We've given up so much, just so that corporations, and a small percent of the already rich, can make a few more bucks.
I went to a local fruit stand in Lebanon and asked for their best tomato. It happened to be an heirloom tomato, completely asymmetrical in shape and color, and my brainwashed state refused to allow its appearance to stimulate any sense of palatability. It was over a dollar more than the last one I'd bought, but desperation and curiosity prevailed. I shrugged, took a bite, and lost myself...
A carrot clearly tastes like a carrot. A strawberry, a strawberry. But a tomato: it's impossible to "name that flavor" without writing a book. I'd been missing out on what makes life interesting: variety, new experiences, following passions, not worrying about the money. The true pursuit of happiness.
No comments:
Post a Comment