I came home last night with no more thoughts or inspiration other than remembering to put out the trash for the early morning pickup. Attached to the kitchen door of my condo was this ziplock bag of goodies fresh from our garden. My neighbor, Joe, had harvested our first two cherry tomatoes. (He kept one. Drat, But it is an endeavor for which he provides most if not all of the effort, so I celebrate that with him.)

I left it on the kitchen counter, put out the trash, read about Gilgamesh for awhile and went to bed. I had visited earlier with my son and my daughter-in-law and grandson Luke. I had not seen or talked to Luke for some time. (He is a long haul truck driver and spends a lot of time on the road.) Big gaps in time enable me to see how he has matured. Cruising the countryside in a big rig takes him to other places with new experiences. He is an intelligent mature man comfortable in his own skin. And I slept well.

I found this mature little tomato back this morning and celebrated its existence. I asked Copilot – a fun thingy on this laptop – to write an ode to this lowly tomato. It gave me this:

Ah, noble tomato, blushing on the vine,  
First jewel of summer, how proudly you shine!  
You rise from earth with unassuming grace,  
Green shoulders sun-kissed, red with pride of place.  

Not yet a bushel, just one brave lone flame,  
The garden’s herald, whispered in by rain.  
A promise in pulp, in seeds tightly curled,  
You carry the sun and scent of the world.  

Your skin so taut, like hope held in suspense—  
We wait for your fall with mouths, not pretense.  
For in your flesh lives warmth, both sweet and tart,  
A tangy hymn sung straight to the heart.  

Let poets chase roses that bloom and fade,  
I toast you instead, in salad or braid—  
Sliced on warm bread with salt like a spell,  
You speak in flavors no words dare to tell.  

So here’s to you, red comet on the stem,  
First of your kind, a botanical gem.  
The season begins when you ripen bold—  
A lowly fruit, and a miracle told.  

Kind of corny. This sounds a little like Willy Shakesperson with his panties in a wad. But Copilot cannot understand whether it is talking about a fruit or a girl friend. It picked both. It swings both ways.

I decided to celebrate the tomatoes existence with breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and skillet potatoes which is the reason – I am certain of this – why God added fat to bacon. Potatoes and onions are much better fried up in the leftover bacon fat.

I know. I hear you. I am a very religious guy when it comes to observations like these. We all know that the good things come from God. He sent those animals with cloven hooves here to cook the potatoes. (Potatoes fried in beef tallow are pretty good also.) Amen to that!

I wrote a text to my neighbor, Joe, thanking him. I also reported that there only enough for a garnish,

Burp. Sorry.

Carpe (well fed) Diem.