JOY ALONG THE WAY: TOMATO NO. 1 IS ENJOYED

I interrupt my fascination for the birds at my new feeder, the rabbits that come at 4 o'clock and the storm-tossed hedgerow to bring news of Project Tomato.

This is the tomato plant I put into the big pot, placed on the morning sunshine porch and have talked to kindly and encouragingly almost daily.

My TLC has paid off. I watched the first little green marble grow in circumference and slowly turn from bright green to pale green to pink to red. It grew flawlessly. No dents, no splits, no pecks.

Each day I planned what I was going to do with this potential Epicurean delight. First, I thought, when it was ripe, I would pour scalding water over it so as to peel it as flawless as it had grown. Then I would cut it into three large wedges and serve it on a special green glass plate to accompany Sunday dinner when Steve and Viney came. Then I thought I would give it to my neighbor who brings me asparagus, squash, eggplant, and yes, tomatoes. I rationalized that would be tantamount to taking coals to Newcastle.

Steve and Viney went to see a Cardinal baseball game just when the tomato reached its peak for consumption.

On a Sunday morning I stepped out onto the porch. A shaft of sunlight was stopped by this red tomato. It seemed to give off little shafts of its own. I clasped my hand around it, appreciating its healthy weight and perfection of appearance. Did I clasp too tightly? Maybe. Anyway the ruby jewel of many carats came off in my hand. I held it to my cheek, feeling the satiny smoothness and inhaling that inimitable tomato smell -- essence of summer.

The decision of what I should do with it came swiftly. I held it under a water faucet just in case anything had dared to touch it besides myself. I took it back to the sunshine, along with the salt shaker, sat on the steps and proceeded to eat that juicy "cooaddie" all by myself.

Beginning at the blossom end, I nipped it gently, lest the juice explode. Then follow a dash of salt, a bite, a dash of salt and another bite, right down to where its umbilical cord had been separated from the mother plant. No juice, no seeds exploded. Not even a bit of the thin skin remained when I reached that hard core where it was attached to the plant. For a moment I thought I'd eat even that, but then, why be such a hedonist? I tossed it into the grass where, presently, a grackle came to inspect it and carry it away.

Now this not to be an isolated event. There are ten more little green tomatoes coming on and three sprigs of yellow blossoms.

I give myself the JBMTA.

Rejoice!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.