We’re overrun with Lemon Boy tomatoes, the yellow variety with a slight tang that makes them delicious. My favorite way to eat them is Harriet the Spy style, on wheat bread with a thin scrim of mayo.
Did you read Harriet the Spy as a child? If so, you’ll recall that she ate nothing but tomato sandwiches. I credit Harriet with my desire to become a writer. She spied on people around her, recording her deadly observations about them in her composition book.
While pregnant with Christopher 21 years ago this summer, I ate Lemon Boy tomatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. When he was little, he was a regular in our backyard garden, uprooting a carrot, onion, or “garlics” as he called them. I used to tell him that eating so many Lemon Boys while I was expecting him was the reason he was such a sweet, nice boy — it was like eating the sun.
Christopher is visiting us for a couple of days this weekend, on a short break from his summer jobs in San Diego. Here he is with his cousin Savannah, at our impromptu dinner party last night.
Ironically, he loathes tomatoes, carefully picking them out of the salad and scraping them from his slice of pizza. He wouldn’t eat a Lemon Boy if you paid him. Despite that aversion, having him around even for a short time is like sunshine in our lives.