and if it is hot august, bruce's fourth of july feels right just about now, sandy, and the river rolled next. i am in the kitchen, looking at tomatoes. what is it about these heirlooms? i set them out on the sunny sill, turned a brown paper back trick, all they did was languish and rot. seems portland just ain't for tomatoes. wish i could cross the river to the other side, but jersey might as well be somewhere behind the moon. i kept up with the boss and got all teary eyed. i read the times on the latest from the nineties, of all things: tomato water, just as 'hoo hoo i got a crush on you' ran off the wires. call it what you want, coincidentally, i'll crush, sieve and filter a tomato, just to see what gives. i did so with no remarkable results, excepting dirty dishes.
instead i took up california zebra's. i'm no locavore when it comes to flavor. and sure enough, those green and yellow striped little guys tasted like a tomato. alright, okay, not like one from jersey, but for a salad? with sliced buffalo mozzarella, basil and shaved spring onions? and mp3 springsteen?
corny i am, true, but that salad is mine, all mine. you can look but you better not, no you better not. come on, it's ninety seven in the yard, a shade cooler in the kitchen. and it's glory days, yes, all over again.