I HAVE never understood why I have this problem when it comes to eating or preparing a tomato
It’s as if they possess some weird alien intelligence whose mission it is to make me look bad in the eyes of the Princess.
A tomato is not even sure of its own identity. It is a fruit if you happen to be a botanist, but definitely veg if you are the chief cook of the household like me.
What I do know is that it’s a treacherous beast and it came as no surprise to learn that the tomato is a member of the deadly nightshade family.
They seem to be waiting for me wherever I go and no matter what precautions I take, they ambush me when I am least expecting it, blitzing my clothes.
I Love Tomatoes!
The problem is I love tomatoes; whether they be part of a Greek salad, a bolognese sauce or simply on toast, but when my eagle-eyed lady gets a hint that I am about to indulge once more, I receive the dreaded Medusa look.
It has been known for me to be seated in a restaurant with a napkin tucked into the top of my shirt; another wedged into my waistband and newspaper draped over both legs, before the Princess will allow me to take one bite of a tomato based dish.
It’s embarrassing. And pointless, because invariably I will find that once I have been unwrapped there are blobs of tomato on my shoes (white ones of course) or in my hair.
I thought I couldn’t go wrong by eating those little bite sized cherry jobs, but no, although I pop one in my mouth and seal my lips tight shut, as soon as I bite down the juice finds the smallest of gaps and spurts out under pressure down my shirt front.
My last encounter was with a chilli con carne at a local eatery where, because my dear lady was absent, disaster was inevitable.
Cutting into a chunky chip with the edge of my fork, one half of the potato leapt into the air, did a double back flip and taking a dollop of tomato rich sauce with it, hit me in the chest and dropped onto my lap.
My white, newly pressed linen shorts-clad lap. I was pondering this yesterday as I absently pulled the aluminum ring on a tin of sardines.
The lid came away like a coiled spring and showered my shirt with a deadly mixture of fish oil and the inevitable tomato sauce.
That stain will never shift, so I have quietly disposed of the garment in the bin and hope that my beloved will not notice its passing.