THERE are some things in this life impossible to describe. Like the smell of a tomato plant in the full flush of spring growth.
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I just brushed past ours on my way in the door and was hit by that heady rush… earthy, musty, spicy – the sweet scent of life forcing its way from the soil.
Intensified by the sun’s heat – sheep poo percolating with the roots.
Bam! I was instantly transported to the backyard of my childhood, circa 1975, playing cricket in scorching heat.
Fossicking through the furry leaves and prickly stems of dad’s tomato plants – the impossible search for a green tennis ball, lost until the plants were pulled out in May.
But that smell… beyond words.
In his book, The Measure of a Man, the American actor Sidney Poitier recollects his childhood as the son of a tomato farmer.
How when he sat on his father’s knee, even in the depths of winter, there was still a hint of that sharp, zesty scent of fresh tomatoes on his clothes and skin.
Our own plants are a mass of pale green marbles at the moment – zebra striped and joyful – promising mouth-size bombs of zing in time for Christmas.
Could there be a better gift?
The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda wrote a stunning love poem to the tomato. “In December,” he wrote, “juice flows in the streets.
It’s no wonder the South Americans have such fervour for their tomatoes.
They were cultivated in that part of the world as early as 500BC.
The Aztecs were putting them on their Saos 300 years before the Italians even realised they were the missing ingredient for a perfect pizza.
Imagine being the first European to taste a tomato. What a strange fruit it must have seemed.
And imagine still the millions of human beings who lived entire lifetimes without ever having tasted the zing of a ripe tomato.
When I think of Neruda’s ode to el tomate, I think of a love story stretching back to 1987 and a backpacker hostel in Venice.
In the dining room, I ate spaghetti with Wil and Bec who’d met each other three weeks earlier in Bunol, Spain, where the streets literally flow with tomato juice each August.
La Tomatina is a festival that introduces 100 tons of over-ripe tomatoes to 20,000 crazy tourists, creating the world’s ruddiest, juiciest food fight.
Wil was from Idaho, Bec was from Sydney. They shared their first kiss on a Spanish street corner, dripping with tomato pulp.
It’s no surprise the french coined it pomme d’amour – the fruit of love.
Me, I just can’t wait to pop that first red bomb of summer in my mouth and feel the explosion of flavour – or lay those glistening slices on Savoy crackers – with black pepper ground on top.
There’s your love story right there. The indescribable joy. The humblest of fruits.