But when I was fifty, I married a man who adored them fresh from the garden. So, wearing rubber gloves, I sliced them into pretty crescents for my honey-bunny.
At fifty-five, I realized my crimson nemesis was a necessary evil. It kicked up flavor in spaghetti sauce. I hacked a couple into chunks the size of meteors, which could easily be identified and left behind in the pot when I served myself.
At sixty, I diced them into pea-sized cubes and they swam incognito in my chili. If accidentally spooned up, the offender was gulped down my gullet, bypassing taste buds.
At sixty-four, I ordered vegetarian loaf at Eden Alley. It arrived crowned with a suspicious blood-red glop. Maybe I was mesmerized by the aromas of thyme, basil, and oregano, but I could no longer see the existential threat in those tomatoes. I scooped up a forkful along with mushrooms and spinach. An acidic tang mingled with the smokey flavor of portobellos on my tongue. My God! Surely the angels serve this dish in heaven. After six decades, in instantaneous revelation, I transcended slime, seed, and skin. Today, tomatoes. Tomorrow, Everest.
sometimes it's just too hard to change
another transformation that happened when I least expected it