RELISHING MY ANNUAL TOMATO SANDWICH
8-15-08
"Sex is good but not as good as fresh sweet
corn," Garrison Keillor wrote. I would amend it to say sex is not as
good as a tomato sandwich.
Let me take this one step further and say, "Especially when one only
eats one tomato sandwich a year." It grieves me deeply to tell my fellow
addicts this is the fate life has dealt me.
I have poured my heart out about tomato sandwiches in several columns.
The first was a slurpy, sentimental tribute to the marvelous red fruit,
sliced and placed on well-mayonnaised white bread. Another column gave
explicit directions for making the sandwich and to the horror of some of
my tomato sandwich aficionados, accepted Miracle Whip as a substitute
for mayonnaise. I almost got thrown out of the First Church of
Tomatotarians for that unintentional aspersion on mayonnaise.
You may remember a heart-wrenching column where I solemnly announced I
could not eat any more tomato sandwiches because Dr. Sherry Rogers had
informed me that three out of four people with arthritis got better when
they quit nightshade vegetables, including tomatoes and potatoes. I have
stayed with such a diet now for a year and must admit that it does
diminish arthritis pain.
Today I am here to admit I have backslid. Backsliding runs in my family.
Even my preacher father had a horrific temper and would say a couple of
little semi-naughty words like "consarn" when he was in the throes of
anger. An aunt went to the altar for prayer at so many revivals that her
nose made an indentation in it. She could not give up this alcoholic
harmonica player whose company she craved and sought out shortly after
the revival was over.
Back when I said I was not eating tomato sandwiches, my sister served
notice on me that she was not giving them up. Her arthritis is as bad as
mine but when it comes to tomatoes and potatoes, she's an incurable
sinner. She also knows I can resist anything but temptation so every
time she had a tomato sandwich she would tell me about it in
mouth-watering detail. She's primarily responsible for my downfall but
offers no repentance for it.
I decided to eat one tomato sandwich per summer. I figured one tiny sin
per year was more than enough improvement for a guy who played in skull
orchards, beer joints, honkytonks, and nightclubs for 45 years.
So here I go to the store for a fresh jar of Miracle Whip, a loaf of
white bread (that made it two sins) and fresh black pepper. When I saw I
was out of Celtic Sea Salt, I delayed that one and only tomato sandwich
until I could get some "Flower of the Ocean" from the Grain and Salt
Society. There's as much difference in regular salt and Celtic Sea Salt
as there is between Georgia Moon and George Dickel. My position is if I
am going to sin I must make it as delicious as possible because public
repentance is such an embarrassing thing.
I set out a big dinner plate to catch the drippings and a stack of
napkins for the chin. I even shaved the skin off the tomato. Then after
laying down a thick layer of Miracle Whip, about two inches of thinly
sliced tomatoes, and adding the freshly ground pepper and Flower of the
Ocean, I commenced this new annual experience of dining in succulent
splendor.
The birds started singing outside. I think a few angels joined in,
making me feel better about backsliding. My little heart fluttered. My
taste buds screamed, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Unless I backslide again, I am going to stick to my vow to make this an
annual experience. I may end up in a wheelchair but don't they make them
with trays? A man must always prepare for the possibility of
backsliding.
