My house smells like tomatoes.
And not that great lasagna-pizza
kind of tomato smell.
It's more like a...
stewed-tomato-musty-old-lady smell
that has seeped into my nostrils
to the point of nausea.
Cooked tomatoes kinda smell
like feet that have sweat too long
in wet canvas tennis shoes.
Or sorta like old newspapers
stashed in the basement
next to the leaky pipes.
Yeah- that kinda tomatoey smell.
Maybe it's just me.
Not me that smells funny,
but me that imagines the funny smell.
I've been canning tomatoes
since 9:30 and it's almost 1:00.
Time sure flies when you
are bored out of your gourd
and your entire kitchen
looks like somebody
put a zombie in the microwave
and blew him up.
Plus, it's kinda hard to type
while you have tomato seeds
sticking to your hands and wrists
like some type of freaky garden bling.
I'm new at this.
God forgive me
if I end up canning quarts and quarts
of flavorsome botulism for my loved ones.
But my husband says
the days of throwing tomatoes
over the fence is over.
It's funny how he seems okay
with the twenty pound zucchinis being wasted.
Or the foot long okra.
Or those obese little cucumbers
that grew round instead of long.
Don't get me wrong.
I love tomatoes.
And I believe in preserving food
for the winter ahead.
But I sure wish tomatoes
smelled liked baked apples
or cinnamon donuts
or even Christmas trees.
The old-lady-house-dress-tomato-smell
is just not something Glade
would bottle up
for a refreshing fragrance spritz.
Well, gotta go tend my harvest now.
Then open all the doors and windows
to let the house air out.
I just hope some old-musty-tomato-smelling man
doesn't walk by and mistake it for an invitation.
