Golden Apple

It’s mid-September, and the dark falls by seven now. Mornings are chilly and soaked with dew. Mums and pumpkins vie for space outside the supermarket, and brown leaves from horse chestnut trees drift down Main Street. We are turning inward again, in spite of summer remnants: overflowing window boxes, warm waters, blue, blue sky, and yes, yes, yes tomatoes.

We wait through long, listless, humid days when fans whir, the newspaper folds into itself, and tiny spiders spin instant corner webs. We wait through traffic jams, parades, side-yard weddings, craft fairs, and general hoop-la until the day when the first red tomato hangs plump on the vine, a jewel of vast proportions.

In all their ripe, lucious, chin-dripping glory, tomatoes are spreading across kitchen counters, building on windowsills, spilling over farmstand bins. Brandywines, Big Boys, Early Girls, Cherry Drops, Bumble Bees, Mr. Stripeys, Grandma’s Pick. Tomatoes, infused with all that August sun, sit heavy and warm in your hand and smell like everything that is good and pure on this earth.

The French used to call the tomato la pomme d’amour or love apple, believing that this exotic fruit had aphrodisiac powers. Adding to its allure is the tomato’s rightful place in the nightshade family along with tobacco, eggplant, peppers, and the deadly mandrake. The Italians called them pomi d’oro or golden apples, the fruit of temptation in Greek mythology.

Their greatest temptation seems to be that few of us can eat only one. And once the tomatoes begin, eating them once, twice, three times a day is essential just to keep up. Tomatoes grow prolifically with ardor and heat. One plant can yield anywhere from eight to twenty pounds of love apples. In September, my friends with gardens are busy stewing and saucing, slicing and canning and distributing tomatoes all over the neighborhood.

The very best thing to do is pick that first tomato and eat it right there in the middle of the garden or open field. Let it drip, let it burst and splash and juice, let its tiny seeds fall on your shirt, let it fill you with warmth and well being and memories of another sweet summer. Golden apples. Love indeed.