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Dalton
Roberts |
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If
there is anything better than a tomato sandwich on white bread, smeared
liberally with mayonnaise, the good Lord must have kept it for the
angels in heaven. One thing is for sure - they transport me to heaven. I
remember one time when they saved my life. We were providing music in a
rural church for a week and staying with a farm family there. The first
morning we awoke with chickens roosting on the footboard of our bed (I
kid you not). At breakfast there was a big trough against the dining
room wall where they fed scraps to the dogs, cats and house chickens. It
was liberally covered with green flies. The
man of the house told us, "Me and the missus have caught stomach
amoebas and we can't figger how it happened." Suddenly we all got
nauseated and after breakfast went into town and got a big basket of
tomatoes, two big loaves of white bread and a large jar of mayonnaise.
That's all we ate for days, fleeing the attack of the dreaded stomach
amoebas. I
was beginning to believe I would not get to enjoy one this year. My
efforts to get the right tomatoes kept meeting with defeat. When
it comes to what we Southerners call "mater sandwiches," it is
easy to wander into sin. The first sin is to use anything but white
bread. If you ever do that, go somewhere and hide your face and ask your
taste buds for forgiveness. The
second sin is to not use enough mayonnaise. If you are dieting, it is
better to just abstain from one of these heavenly delights than to not
use mayonnaise or to use too little. A
third sin is to tell someone a tomato is a "Dayton Mountain
tomato" when it is merely driven near Dayton Mountain. That sin was
committed against me twice this summer. The first time, I was in the
metropolis of downtown Dayton to dine at Dayton Cafe with my pal,
"Barnacle" Morgan, and there on the courthouse square I saw
the first tomatoes of the season. I
ran over and asked, "Are those Dayton Mountain tomatoes?" and the
lady said, "Yes sir, I picked 'em this morning." I bought a
bag and they were nothing but red, hard softballs. You would
have needed to pour a half bottle of ketsup on one to get the slightest
tomato taste. You
see Dayton is to tomatoes as Vidalia is to onions. At least it always
had been for me until this first contact with a 2004 tomato. I am
convinced that lady was from Chicago and came all the way down here to
find a dumb hillbilly. She succeeded. Shortly
thereafter I was visiting my sister and she said, "Would you like a
tomato sandwich made with a Dayton Mountain tomato?" After a short
swoon I panted, "Oh yes ... please make me one!" As soon
as I saw her take out that hard red softball, I knew the Chicago lady
had found her second hillbilly of the season. What
is going on with tomato farmers? Those big red hard tomatoes were
invented to make us miss real tomatoes during the winter months - to
evoke memories of tomatoes in the minds of gullible simpletons like me. They
were created for shipping. I am certain it was a good moneymaking idea.
I have no doubt you could ship one to Russia via Mexico, South America
and Australia with the last two hundred miles of the journey being by
Siberian sled and it would still be as fresh as the day it was shipped.
And as tasteless. The
wondrous news is that a friend from Fiery Gizzard dropped me off a real
tomato and I just finished dining in succulent splendor. I
can face the winter now. I have had my mater sandwich. You
may enjoy Dalton's website at www.daltonroberts.com
or want to peruse his gathered writings at www.ipsfeatures
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