The Tomato
I have never eaten a tomato in my life and I never will. 100%, final, it will never happen. Life defining moments can come at any time and it’s amazing how a few hours of time can have a lifelong effect on who you are, what you do and the decisions you make. One such moment happened to me while on vacation in Maine with my family as a child. It has stayed with me forever. I need only to let the memory come forth for the smell of a ripened red tomato to permeate the air and the seed of discomfort to be with me.
My sister and I sat side by side on the hardened bench, bare feet dangling, united in our fear and our determination. My parents had gone out and my Auntie Lynn was babysitting. I was 3 and Martha was 7 and we were sitting at the table, nestled in the corner of the kitchen, in the cottage by the ocean. Placed in front of each of us was a slice of tomato; red, juicy, freshly pungent and picked from the garden earlier in the day. I, with my blonde hair, arms crossed against my body and a stubborn pout on my face and Martha with her short, sleek dark cap of hair looking nervous, both of us in tears. Lording over us in a rage was my Auntie Lynn; tall, regal, back straight with her cone shaped brassiere harden breasts jutting out, outraged and just as determined as we were. We could not leave the table until we had both eaten our slice of tomato.
So there we were, all red faced with emotion, neither side giving in. I wanted no part of that tomato and was willing to take the punishment. At times the room was silent, but thick with tension and a few escaped whimpers from the two of us. At other times the room was explosive with noise and violence, as she screamed and hit us in an attempt to make us eat the single slice. We sat there in solidarity, for hours, the room see -sawing back in forth between the two extremes. I couldn’t tell you what else we ate for dinner that night or how long we sat there, but I know this, it was light out when my parents left and dark when they returned.
When my parents came back, my Father scooped us both up in his strong arms and removed us from the table leaving the uneaten tomato behind. He was angry and left my Mother to deal with her sister. After wiping our tears, he helped us brush our teeth at the sink, and put us to bed, tucking us in with extra care and attention. Auntie Lynn never babysat for us again.
I wonder if this was the start of my love/ hate relationship with food. Could an alcoholic Aunt really have started this madness, over a tomato, no less? She didn’t have children and maybe she thought this is what you did. Or maybe, she was drunk and didn’t know what she was doing. I’m sure there is more to my lifelong food woes, but I needed to begin somewhere. A tomato seemed like a good place to start.
My sister and I sat side by side on the hardened bench, bare feet dangling, united in our fear and our determination. My parents had gone out and my Auntie Lynn was babysitting. I was 3 and Martha was 7 and we were sitting at the table, nestled in the corner of the kitchen, in the cottage by the ocean. Placed in front of each of us was a slice of tomato; red, juicy, freshly pungent and picked from the garden earlier in the day. I, with my blonde hair, arms crossed against my body and a stubborn pout on my face and Martha with her short, sleek dark cap of hair looking nervous, both of us in tears. Lording over us in a rage was my Auntie Lynn; tall, regal, back straight with her cone shaped brassiere harden breasts jutting out, outraged and just as determined as we were. We could not leave the table until we had both eaten our slice of tomato.
So there we were, all red faced with emotion, neither side giving in. I wanted no part of that tomato and was willing to take the punishment. At times the room was silent, but thick with tension and a few escaped whimpers from the two of us. At other times the room was explosive with noise and violence, as she screamed and hit us in an attempt to make us eat the single slice. We sat there in solidarity, for hours, the room see -sawing back in forth between the two extremes. I couldn’t tell you what else we ate for dinner that night or how long we sat there, but I know this, it was light out when my parents left and dark when they returned.
When my parents came back, my Father scooped us both up in his strong arms and removed us from the table leaving the uneaten tomato behind. He was angry and left my Mother to deal with her sister. After wiping our tears, he helped us brush our teeth at the sink, and put us to bed, tucking us in with extra care and attention. Auntie Lynn never babysat for us again.
I wonder if this was the start of my love/ hate relationship with food. Could an alcoholic Aunt really have started this madness, over a tomato, no less? She didn’t have children and maybe she thought this is what you did. Or maybe, she was drunk and didn’t know what she was doing. I’m sure there is more to my lifelong food woes, but I needed to begin somewhere. A tomato seemed like a good place to start.
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