Today’s title is a bit more stream of consciousness than accurate but there is something about this tomato, the temperature today – and the name of the lady I associate with singing that song so beautifully – Blossom Dearie – that just prompted it.
Today is warm and gentle. The heat is just there – not fierce – not intense – more a sort of downy heat – the sweet sort that might be felt lifting a baby from sleep. Or from stroking a cat that’s been lying curled up on a warm windowsill. The sort that’s seeped deep into the clay of terracotta pots. The sort you’re very glad to be feeling.
If tomatoes can exude soporific softness then Brandywine does. It may be large but cut it open and its peachy, apricot flesh blooms as delicately as any June rose.
Eating it is to slip under the Radoxed waters of a deep bath. The last ripening variety of the year – an edible requiem to a summer of tomatoes.
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What lovely, tomato prose. You should have been a poet.
Thank you ! I don’t think the tomato in general has been given enough stanza time so I shall have to pen a few odes proper !