I got married in 1993, so I guess you could safely say I’ve been the boss of household produce for almost twenty-three years. I’m in charge of the grocery shopping, although several times per year I’ll throw a fit about that and drag my husband to the store with me. After what feels like five hours of his browsing, meandering, socializing andÂ eating grapes we haven’t paid for yet, I remember why I shop alone.
The bottom is line is that I am the buyer of tomatoes.
Yesterday was grocery shopping day, and I needed tomatoes for Taco Tuesday. Apparently we’re having a tomato apocalypse somewhere because the meager selection looked like they were reenactingÂ The Walking Dead, veggie-style. (Yes, I know tomatoes are a fruit, but youÂ don’t put them in a fruit salad, do you?)
Because it took me more than the customary ten seconds to grab two tomatoes, I ended up looking at the signs. I had no idea some are better for sauces and some for sandwiches. Some are even marked as being better for slicing. But the kicker…
FOR BEST FLAVOR, DON’T REFRIGERATE.
Wait…what? Okay, logically I know the tomatoes aren’t refrigerated at the store. But for whatever reason, I’ve been putting them in the fridge for twenty-three years. And, OMG, the apples and the lettuce and the plums aren’t refrigerated at the store, either. Are all these things supposed to just sit out on my table? I put themÂ all in the fridge. (Except bananas, because putting bananas in the fridge would be weird.)
When I put the groceries away yesterday, I left the tomatoes on the counter because, according to the sign, I guess that’s what you’re supposed to do with them. And every time I went into the kitchen, I looked at those tomatoes sitting on my counter. And I moved them when I needed to wash the dishes. And I moved them again when opening the box from my publisher with German author copies ofÂ All He Ever Dreamed. And I moved them yet again when I made my afternoon decaf because they were blocking the sugar bowl.
Then I put the damn tomatoes in the fridge.