Red and Bloated

I'm sitting in the garden, the best part of summer has past but the sun is shining and a cool breeze rustles through late in the afternoon. I've been here for a while and have turned a very deep shade of red indeed. I have become fat and rather swollen and I think if left for too much longer I stand the very real possibility of splitting right down the middle. I am not the only one but then thats what tomatoes do so it's to be expected really.

There are few things that come close to the taste of a freshly picked tomato from my very own garden. Maybe its the time invested nurturing the plant from seed, its constant child like calls for food, water and the occasional story that make the fruits taste all the sweeter in the end. As the summer draws in and the green fruits turn that deep shade of red the excitement build for I know a harvest is on the way and fresh tomatoes are nearly here. In good years there is a glut but never a waste as the Big cheese and I find inventive ways the use them in all manor of dishes and then concoct ways to preserve the rest. So after being plucked from that nice cosy stem that I had grown so accustom to what fate would I decide for my tomato self. Given the range of my applications the options are almost endless. It could be argued that the puritan way would be to be picked, sliced and possibly drizzled with a small amount of olive oil then enjoyed in my natural state. Sun dried seems a little more exciting, my flavors concentrated down to half my original size with the possibility of adorning any number of continental style neuvo unmeasured wop-a-hand-full-in Jamie Oliver creations.The fact is I am just toying with you, for me there is no debate to be had, I knew right from the start how I want to end up. It's not high brow or refined but loved by young and old.

I want to end up sweet but a bit sour too, I want to sit in cafes and to smother chips, lay on top of a burger and be pressed down by the bun. I want give the illusion of one of your five-a-day but with a taste that you know it isn't. I want the possibility of meeting anyone from a cabby to the queen. I want people to pause while the waiter fetches me before starting their lunch. I want to make an odd noise as I come out that makes small children (and the non tomato me) laugh out loud. I want to spray in many directions as I near the end and drip from sandwiches making shirts fit only for washing then refuse to show myself if dispensed from an old style bottle unless mercilessly spanked on the bottom. I can't think of any other way a tomato could have this much fun.

In short make me Ketchup.