I joined a church.
The holy order of the worship of the summertime tomato.
I’m the official acolyte, but I suspect I’m not the only devotee.
To think, just last summer, I was an unbeliever.
I hated tomatoes.
No matter what state I lived in or what chaos invaded my life, my dislike would remain constant. Nothing could change my hatred for the watery, weakly acidic flesh that was the tomato.
Until I discovered the Farmer’s Market.