The first of my Sweet 100 cherry tomatoes are ripening, morphing from green to yellow to red-orange.
Already, I have popped several into my mouth, straight from the vine, warm from the sun.
As I reach through the wire tomato cage for more, my hand brushes against the rough, hairy plant stems. I pluck several red orbs, toss them into my mouth.
They taste of sky, of sunshine, of summer days in Minnesota.
These tomatoes pack flavor in each juicy burst.
Then I lift my hand to my face, breathe in the strong scent of tomato vine that clings to my skin, the smell that I will later wash away with soap and water.
But for now I allow the pungent odor to linger, reminding me of summer’s bounty, of these sun-ripened tomatoes that, through a lengthy and cold Minnesota winter, I’ve longed to eat.