TheBanyanTree: A TOMATO STORY

[Julie Anna Teague]

That's a great story.  Thanks for sharing.  My mom was big on table 
manners, too.  I can still hear her telling my brother, at every single 
meal, "CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!"  He still eats with his mouth open 
at every family meal.  I try to be tolerant.  Maybe it's his sinuses, I 
tell myself.  He has Rheumatoid Arthritis, he's got enough to worry 
about, I think, concentrating on peaceful family relations.  I try not 
to look.  My husband, bless his heart, civilized as he is in other 
ways, holds his fork or spoon in an overhand grip like a monkey or a 
little kid which forces his elbow up and makes it look like he's 
literally shoveling the food into his mouth.  Apparently his mother, 
civilized as she is in other ways, never told him to hold his fork 
properly.  This small thing drives me to complete distraction and I'm 
afraid that, civilized as I am in other ways, I allow my distaste to 
register on my face sometimes when we are at a nice restaurant.  I told 
him once that it makes the wrong impression on people who have been 
brought up to focus on table manners.  This small thing makes him 
appear uncouth when he is not.  I just can't HELP it.  These things 
were absolutely drilled into my head every night at dinner.

Oh, and the other story yours reminded me of:  Our grandparents grew 
vegetables and of course had a big plot of corn.  So we could eat as 
much corn as we wanted in the summer.  My brother and I had a contest 
one time, and not to be outdone by the other, we finally called a truce 
at twelve ears of corn each.  Plus we had to eat the rest of our 
dinner, of course. I still don't know how we managed except that we 
were worm-ridden little urchins who were perpetually hungry.



Quoting smack58 at nycap.rr.com:

> A TOMATO STORY
> My father liked
> to teach his children...
>
> Don't talk with your mouth full.
> See the difference
> between the salad
> and the regular fork?
> Is that the right spoon
> for soup?
> Elbows off the table, please.
> Use your napkin.
> Eat everything on your plate.
> Don't you know
> there are starving children
> that would love to have
> a meal like this.
>
> Late one summer
> in my seventh year
> several bushel baskets
> sat in the kitchen
> ready for mother
> to cook and clean
> and store in quart jars.
>
> My brother and sister and I
> could hardly wait
> to get our customary treat
> of a fresh tomato
> with little Morton salt shakers.
> We loved those little shakers
> as much as we loved
> the tomatoes.
>
> "Please, Daddy, please?
> He smiled
> handing my younger,
> but bigger brother
> a huge ole' red one.
> He handed me
> and baby sister, Biz,
> two smaller ones.
>
> As the eldest,
> I whined my displeasure.
> that brother got the biggest.
> Daddy raised his brows
> and said,
> if you finish
> and think you can eat more,
> you may have another.
>
> I hurried
> finishing mine first
> then rinsed the juices
> from my hands
> with the hose.
>
> I ran to get my second tomato.
> Daddy chose a small one.
> "Oh, no," I cried.
> "I want a big one
> like Patrick had."
> I pointed to a huge one
> at the top of the basket.
>
> Daddy warned me;
> my eyes were
> bigger than my stomach
> but I held my ground.
> Putting his hands
> on his hips
> he glared down
> at my stubborn self.
> "Sharon, you better eat
> every damn bit of it.
> No coming in here
> and telling me
> you're full."
>
> I nodded a big nod
> and skipped outside,
> sticking my tongue out
> at my brother,
> as I passed him.
> I grabbed my Morton shaker
> and off I went
> beneath the oak
> to eat my wonderful
> big tomato.
>
> Half-way through
> I knew
> I'd bitten off more
> than I could chew.
> Daddy'd been right.
> What to do?
> What to do?
> I sat  thinking
> while pretending to eat.
>
> Finally,
> I crept to the trash can
> and lifting the lid
> put my half eaten tomato inside.
> I hosed off my hands
> took my shaker
> back to the porch,
> and headed out to play.
>
> As I squatted
> at the sandbox,
> thoughts lost
> in my digging
> and building,
> I felt a tap on my shoulder.
> Startled, I turned.
> My father crooked his finger at me.
>
> I followed him.
> What had I done?
> Had I forgotten
> to do a chore,
> had my mother called
> and I hadn't heard her?
>
> Daddy walked
> to the garbage can.
> and lifted the lid
> I had lifted
> just a while before.
>
> Pointing
> to my half-eaten tomato
> he said one word,
> "Eat!"
> I squiggled and squirmed.
> He glared and repeated
> his one word command.
> "Eat!"
>
> Reluctantly,
> I reached in
> and took the tomato.
> "Can I get a Morton salt?"
> I asked trying to stall.
> Daddy reached
> into his pocket
> and handed me
> the one I'd left on the porch.
>
> He covered the trash can.
> Crossed his arms.
> He was going to watch
> and make sure
> I ate every last bite....
>
> and I did...
> slowly and reluctantly,
> but I finished.
> I didn't bother with the salt.
>
> When I finished
> Daddy held out his hand
> for the salt shaker.
> "Now go wash
> your hands and face."
>
> My 'eye' appetite
> shrunk considerably
> that afternoon
> never to return.
>