By Nadja Maril
I slice into asymmetrical curves of tender flesh for sandwiches, gazpacho, and salads. Our tomatoes taste sweet but possess thick white cores. Amateur gardeners. We feast.
The young plants purchased, planted, and placed inside wire cages grow tall and dense with leaves so thick, within their shadows tomato fruit hides. I spend a few minutes each morning crouching on the ground looking upwards. Investigating. I see a gaping bite. A wild creature has sampled our crop by moonlight. Savored the tart juice of a barely ripe tomato.
Time to mix cornmeal and spices. Time to fry green tomatoes.
Nadja Maril is a former magazine editor and journalist living in Annapolis, Maryland, USA. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine and her short stories and essays have been published in a number of small literary magazines and anthologies. Follow her on Twitter at SN Maril and Nadjamaril.com.
The Birdseed 