Timmy Toms


All I want to eat are my home grown toms, sprinkled with a little salt on buttery bread. Or perhaps I'll savour these little plump gems with a lump of cheddar or cooked gently and covered in olive oil and oregano from the herb patch.

They've done well the old toms; a few weeks ago I thought we were destined for fried green tomatoes, whistle stop café styley. Maybe I'd have to make my own pickle, a worrying thought for my loved ones as I'm really not the best chef.

Lately I've been feeling a bit sick and I need my garden aid more than ever. The toms are a god send and I actually find I'm craving them. They are all I want.


It's a joyful act bringing them inside too. Me and one of my cats, usually Ziggy oversee tomato production. First we sniff them and give them a gentle squeeze and then we declare them ready or not to pick. We've done very well this year, from early cherry toms in the hanging baskets - thanks Homebase, to the juicy heirloom variety, big and juicy and red.

We warm them up on the kitchen window sill, my hands still full of that wonderful, nothing quite like it smell. I pop them in a little dish I bought for the boyfriend (I mean me) about ten years ago from a trip to Barcelona. It's all terracotta sensible-ness on the outside, but inside there are Gaudi shapes in eye popping colours which really cheer it up.

And we wait. Not very patiently. It normally takes a day or two for the sun through the window to work its magic, then they are flavoursome and oh so bold.


Ode to my tomatoes:


Best big and juicy
Pips dribble down your chin
It's a little bit sexy
If you like that sort of thing.

I'm a poet dontyaknowit.

Plum x

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