They are coming in all at once, clusters of orbs changing overnight from pale green to orange and then to red: not burgundy red or crimson or any one of a number of other reds, but that unique red of ripe tomatoes that is as warm and deep the sun dropping into the Indian Ocean, a sight I have not seen since the great autumn of 1988 and, before that, the seminal coming of age summer of 1971/2, when Australian cricket spawned a new sensation, the moustached fast bowler named Lillee who would inspire, both in style and in facial hair, another sensation forty-one years later.
That was exhausting to write so I can imagine how it reads. Yes, it's Bulwer-Lytton time again; the competition that asks you to write the opening sentence of the worst-ever novel. Shouldn't be hard: just read the average corporate mission statement or the introduction to a bureaucrat's PowerPoint presentation.
The crop had not looked great, but that changed last week. Most are cherry tomatoes, best eaten in a simple salad. Chop an onion, halve the tomatoes, combine in a bowl cut side up, drizzle with very good green olive oil and a dash of vinegar, scatter a shard of fresh basil over and shower with salt and pepper. Heavenly as a side dish to grilled fish or spoon over fresh crusty bread.
There are more coming. I'm looking for ideas.