Tomato recipe

When I was a boy, every sunday my mother would take me and my siblings to the local farmers market to pick up produce for the week. Thinking back, that's probably how I developed the clean-living, clean-breathing, clean-cleaning attitude that inspired me to create this blog. Just me, my family, and the farmers market. Tale as old as time. See, I was a hustler. Even then, I knew the value of things, know what I mean? I got it. I walked between those sun-kissed tents and you know what I saw underneath them? Chumps. Bunch of well meaning shlemiels who wouldn't know a good deal from a dollop of whipped cream.

I started with the tomato guy. "Hi son, what can I get ya?" He asked. I could see a weakness in his eyes. I could taste it. Tasted like tomatoes.

I looked down at his wares. Or pretended to look. I couldn't tell a good tomato from a hash brown but I knew how the game was played. "These fresh?" I asked him, looking just a little skeptical. "Of course, picked em just yesterday." he replied with a smile. "Huh." I said, walking along the stall. "And how much are you charging for these?" I asked. "Those are $6 a pound." He answered. I looked up at him. There was something in his eye. He could feel it, my skepticism. Like a worm just barely beginning to burrow into an apple. Give it time, though, and it'd get all the way in. I'd slipped the thought into his mind that there was something wrong with his tomatoes. His pride and joys. His reason for living. And with two words I made him question the freshness of tomatoes he picked himself yesterday. "Weak" I thought to myself.

I sucked my teeth and paused. "Huh." I repeated. and walked to the other side, pretending to look over whatever variety was laying there. "Look," I continued. "There's a dozen other tomato stalls around here, but you know why I came to you?"

"Why's that?" He said.

"Because I like you. Second I saw you, I knew there was something about you." I told him. He seemed flattered. I could see just a shade of pink creep up his cheeks. "But then I come over here," I continued, "and…" I trailed off. "And what?" He asked. "Well, it's just… Look, I want to buy some tomatoes, you know that. We both know that. But $6…" I trailed off again. His eyebrows knit in concern. "Look, maybe we can do $5 per pound? How about that." He offered. I breathed in, audibly and looked down at the tomatoes. I strained my face, as if to say, "I just don't know." Then I looked back into his eyes. I knew right then and there I had him. He was a broken man. Weak, alone, on his knees, overalls shorn from his body, screaming for justice and mercy. He just didn't know it yet. "I mean, well I don't usually.. but just this once, because I like your race car shoes, how about $4 a pound?" He said. I had the man bidding against himself. He made it too easy.

I sucked my teeth again. Then the pause. Make him sweat. Look into his eyes. Then back down to the tomatoes. Then back up to him. I contorted my face to look just a little disappointed. "I'll be straight with you. I want to make this work. I do. I do. But it's just…" The pause again. "What is it?" tomato man replied. "Look, I'm trying to make this work. I am, but you've gotta work with me. you've gotta." I said. Assertive but pleading. Like it's on him. Like he's the problem.

"Son, I can't go any lower than that. That's already the best deal I've given today." He told me. "If I go any lower I won't make any money!" I looked him in the eye, almost concerned. "What, you think I don't have my own money issues?" I asked him, incredulous. "What do you mean? You're like, seven years old." "Exactly!" I said. He looked perplexed.

"Look, how's this. I put down $3, take the tomatoes and go. You make a quick buck, my family eats tonight, we both leave here happy." I told him. "But the labor alone costs $3, I'd be losing money." He said. There was a confidence, an assurance, a certainty in his voice that I just knew was a mask for deep insecurities I'd planted in his mind meer moments earlier. "And what the hell are you doing paying so much for labor, anyway? You're a farmer, dammit, don't you stand up for yourself out there?" I exclaimed.

"Son, a boy like you shouldn't use that kind of language anyway. And besides, I pay what I'd want to be paid for the work I ask of em, simple as that." He replied, calmly. Something was wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Clearly, my comments earlier were slowly torturing him, making him deteriorate from the most inner sanctum of his now defenseless psyche. But somehow, his responses barely showed any signs of it! I was beginning to get frustrated.

"Ok, old man, let me tell you how this goes. You give me the tomatoes, I leave $2.50 on the table and we never see each other again. Quiche?" I offered. "Do you mean capiche?" He asked. "No." I responded. I thought for a moment. Maybe I did mean capiche. One point, tomato man. "Well alright son, I like the tenacity. How about this, I let you take a tomato back to your mama for free, and if she likes what she sees maybe she can come back and see what else I've got. How about that?" He said.

Did he think I was a moron? A rube? An empty walnut? Did I LOOK like an empty walnut? No. I didn't. I looked like a 9 year old, even though I was only 8. "Ok buster you're starting to make me mad." I told him. Usually, I'd keep these kind of feelings bottled deep, deep inside, but something about the tomato man's attitude was pissing me the heck off. "Well I'm sorry to hear that, son. But like I said, probably shouldn't use that kind of language." He said.

"Don't you tell me how to negotiate, you gotdamn hippie cossack." I spurted out. I'd lost all self control, now. I was telling him what I really think. "Cossack? Is that a Ukraine thing?" He asked, pleasantly. I couldn't take it anymore. All the work I'd put in, all the manipulation, subtlety, subliminal messaging, and here he was asking me about Ukraine! It's enough to make a man kill. Or maybe not a man. Maybe, a boy.

I felt the rage before I knew what was going on. Like an enormous burp, I crept forward before exploding from the ground, propelling myself from the ground onto the tomato table. I sent romas toppling to the ground, with colorful cherry tomatoes tumbling after it. I went for tomato man's neck. If I couldn't get a bargain on tomatoes, I decided right then and there that no one would ever get a bargain on tomatoes.

My sudden attack left him startled, but he quickly composed himself, batted my hands away and grabbed me firmly by the ear. It stung. "God DAMNIT man, don't you know I collect WAX with that??" I pleaded. "Alright son, where's your mama? I'm gonna take you to your mama? A couple minutes later, tomato man and I found my mother. Before I could get a word in edgewise, my mother started apologizing. "I'm so so so sorry sir, we so appreciate you understanding. He's just a kid, he doesn't really understand so well." I heard her say. I was surrounded by enemies.

As we left, I watched my mother purchase a pound of tomatoes for $5.50 a lbs. It stung to hear. I knew I'd never be the same. Too much broken, too much changed. I wanted to hurt them. Hurt them so they never sold tomatoes before. This was my d-day. and I was the nazis in this metaphor.

Anyway. That's how you make a motherfucking tomato.