Say Yes

Sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, you just have to say yes to a box of tomatoes, however imprudent 25 pounds of red and green and striated heirlooms may be. Don't listen to the voices in your head, the doubts—listen to Sarah, who firmly believes we can cook and stew and sauce all of these tomatoes. Embrace that box of discount seconds, tomatoes deemed too bruised or malformed or ugly to sell at full price. And sing to those tomatoes as your carry them home and uphill, sing to them of their ripe, juicy beauty and heady summer smell.

Okay, we didn't actually sing to them. But we should have—and we did give them a photo shoot.

Life is complicated. My life is complicated. For a weekend, for some time approximating 48 hours, life was simple and pure. I drank and laughed and danced with my friends, and I lay about and sat and read and watched Buffy and ate delicious brunches and dinners. Bacon and home fries and roast chicken and focaccia and beets and biscuits and smoked salmon and pasta and scallops and apple crumble and tomatoes. Many a tomato.

A 25-pound box of tomatoes is not particularly complicated. It does not ask you about work tomorrow or what turning 27 means. It does not need query optimization. The box is heavy and red with purpose and potential and hope. Each tomato wants to be eaten—or sauced and frozen for the deep dark winter—and that is a service I know I can provide. Say yes.

Say yes, it's true: I ran again today. I really ran. Not three miles, but seven miles. My body thanked me by opening up and finding its stride and affirming that there is life and vitality and speed in me. In turn, I thanked it with a hot shower and typically-delicious Sarah dinner and, in a moment, with bed: now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my tomatoes to keep from spoiling.