Not some gassed and gorgeous and ludicrously expensive orb from the supermarket.
Not some genetically-modified thing that looks like a tomato but whose skin has been thickened in order to allow agri-business to harvest it with a machine.
A real tomato!
I have died and gone to heaven.
Joe, my neighbor across the street who keeps a small patch of tomatoes and knows how hell-bent enthusiastic I am for the real McCoy, left it without any announcement on my front porch.
Others may pray for a Lexus or enlightenment or some other blessing that is seemingly out of reach, but I am content -- or ecstatic, depending on how honest I might want to be -- with a tomato.
A real tomato!
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