A few notes on this post (ugh, this already sounds like a work e-mail):
- If you don’t like it, you may blame Fig’s aunt. (I won’t link to her in case that’s weird.) She requested a new post. I was going to write one anyway, but then I started to feel gross, so I changed my mind, but then I changed it back again.
- There is a very small chance I am dying. If you don’t hear from me in a week, you may assume I am dead and move on to greener blog pastures.
- Everything you are about to read is gross and unpleasant, and will involve conversations with things and creatures that cannot speak in reality. (Update: I was going to relate a conversation with Fitzpatrick, but I won’t bother. It was even weirder than the rest of all this.)
It all started on Friday afternoon. I had to go to Union Square because that is where the subway is; and I got there and was like, oh yeah, it’s a farmers’ market. I hate farmers’ markets (not for any good reasons; I totally support them and would buy all my stuff from them if I were rich), but I feel obligated to spend quite a lot of time at them anyway. So even though I really wanted to go home and go to the bathroom, I stayed, wandered, looked at the beautiful eggplants and pepper varieties and cat grass and wine-tastings. I found greenhouse tomatoes, which seemed shocking and wrong in July, and regular tomatoes, and FINALLY some wonderful, beautiful, glorious, catfaced heirloom tomatoes. (Oh, the last article I read about catfacing implies that it isn’t a bad thing. But apparently it is. Still, new favorite word.)
I don’t know how to pick good tomatoes, because in my grocery-store experience hard tomatoes will become mealy and will never have any taste, but soft tomatoes will be mealy and gooey and won’t have any taste. And there was a big sign over these heirlooms that said “Do not squeeze.” So I couldn’t decide if the less-firm ones were just more ripe and tastely (not tasteful… oh, flavorful) or if they were just going to deteriorate immediately, or if, alternatively, the more firm ones just wouldn’t have any taste because they never ripened.
I am kind of dumb, probably.
But anyway, I decided to pick my tomatoes based on which ones looked the most interesting; which ones I wanted to share my kitchen and life with, if you will. I ended up with five misfits of various color, size, and squashiness. I was very pleased. ALSO, THEY COST $12. I WAS LESS PLEASED AFTER THAT.
Then I bought a $5 loaf of bread, but it is my favorite bread of all time, so I’ve forgiven myself. (The organic whole-wheat Catskill—they say it’s just their regular bread, but it’s SO GOOD. It’s also sourdough, but it doesn’t say so on the website.)
This morning I was planning my lunch, and decided to make a tomato sandwich with feta. I put some bread in to toast and picked up the largest tomato, since it seemed to be heading quickly toward death and I wanted to use it up.
THEN IT PEED ALL OVER MY KITCHEN TABLE.
I can’t think of any other way to express this. It had been sitting in a puddle of its own juice, and when I picked it up, more juice went everywhere. But it was nasty juice, not tomato juice. I don’t know what it was. I don’t want to think about it anymore.
[While looking for photos for this post, I found a picture of the tomato right before it peed. It was morning and I don’t think I had finished my coffee, but seriously, why did I take that photo????? What is wrong with me? It’s been fifteen minutes since I found it and I am still really, really weirded out. OH. I just remembered. In one corner of the photo—which I am NOT going to post—there are these bubbles, and I was fascinated because my tomato was actively bubbling. This was obviously a bad sign, but I guess at the time it seemed cool?]
I cleaned up the juice and dissected the tomato; there were a lot of bits to be cut away, but most of it smelled good and tomatoey (although not viney, which is my favorite smell in the world). I drizzled some olive oil on the bread, and by that I mean I put a lot of olive oil in the middle and then failed to spread it around, and piled the tomato bits on top, and layed some feta on top.
It turned out well; not world-changing, and it definitely wasn’t one of those things food bloggers do when they eat a simply prepared tomato and then move to a farm in France and never cook their ingredients again and look at the sparrows at dawn and stuff. It was just a relatively good tomato (surprisingly, all things considered). (Except for this one bite that was like rotten tomato wine. I guess I didn’t cut out enough bad spots.)
Then later, because that’s not enough for lunch, I had some olive-tapenade hummus, and my stomach was like, OH MY GOD, STOP FEEDING THAT TO ME. I was like, why, it’s just hummus. But I had to cease because I knew it could punish me severely if it wanted to. Now I have a general feeling of ickiness and am having white pasta for dinner, but there’s not enough of it, so I don’t know what else to eat. Blah.
In other news, I am going to cook the lentils over extremely high heat and freeze them in small portions, so later on I can eat them over bread or rice. I was going to do that tonight, but my stomach was like, I am not dealing with that.
In other completely unrelated news, I am going to put a disclaimer on my About page that says “Do not take my advice on food safety. You will quite literally die immediately.”
P.S. You should know that I wrote a lot more gross things in this post and then deleted them. You’re welcome.
P.P.S. I just took this opportunity to change my life. I have thrown away most of what was in my freezer.
P.P.P.S. I just threw away the rest of the lentils. LIFE IS GETTING CRAZY, GUYS.