Confession

It will take me some courage to say this.

It's always hard to let go of something you've held onto for a long time. It's hard to admit that you were wrong.

But I hope that by sharing this I can give you hope. Because maybe you or someone you love is going through what I've just been through. Maybe it will help you to know that you are not alone. And these problems can be overcome. Maybe your loved one won't have the happy outcome I've had, but just knowing it's possible might lift your heart up today.

So I'm going to be brave and I'm going to tell you my story.

When I was little, my parents had a garden. They grew many things, but the thing I remember was that my parents grew tomatoes. My mother loves tomatoes. With a little sprinkling of salt, if she's still allowed salt these days. I remember that so many times in the summer, dinner was BLTs. Bacon Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches. Usually with corn on the cob on the side. It's a summer backyard garden kind of meal.

Like many children I know today, I didn't really like that dinner. Why? Because I didn't like lettuce and I didn't like tomatoes.

Normal kid stuff, you know. I didn't like peas or broccoli either. I didn't like green beans or celery or carrots much. I certainly didn't like the parsnips and rutabaga my mother sometimes made.

I just didn't like any of that stuff. But this isn't about all that stuff. This is about tomatoes.

Because no matter how many vegetables you don't like, no matter what plant's fruits you declare a dislike for, none will give you so much trouble and grief as admitting a dislike of tomatoes.

But this I have done over and over again in my life. I've spent most of my life not liking tomatoes. I learned, over the years, to be careful who I admitted this to and in what circumstances I shared it. Careful as I was, though, I still sometimes got mocked, talked down to, or told I didn't know what I was talking about. Or that I was just plain wrong.

Well, I'm here today to say that maybe I was wrong. Because yesterday, at a friend's house, while my friend tended to her baby, I happily chose a tomato--the ugliest one--from those she had on her counter. I cut it up and put it over lettuce in a bowl. Then I tore up a few leaves of fresh basil and splashed balsamic vinegar and olive oil over it all. A few sprinkles of salt and pepper. Then I ate it. And you know, I have had many salads served to me by friends. And they've have tomatoes on them and I've eaten them without complaint. But this wasn't that. This wasn't me tolerating the tomato bites. This wasn't me politely eating what was offered me. No.

The simple contents of that bowl were super delicious. And it was all the blame of that tomato. Just somehow it was the most delicious thing. Not just the best tomato I have ever had. But also, like, the best salad I've had in ages.

I've been thinking about writing this post for a few weeks now. But yesterday, finishing that bowl of salad, I knew I had to come clean. I had to make sure that there is no one out there in the world thinking that I STILL do not like tomatoes. Because it's just not true. I do like tomatoes.

I, QueenAnn P., do hereby proclaim that I like tomatoes. Or maybe just this: I like good tomatoes and I willingly eat tomatoes.

Over the years, I've often heard the same response when admitting my dislike of tomatoes. It's so common to hear, "You've just never had a good one." Again, I hate to admit it, but this summer, as I have increasingly willingly eaten the tomatoes that have come into my life, I have to say that they might have been right.

There. I've said it. Now you know my truth. I hope it helps you. I hope it strengthens your faith in the goodness of humanity. If not that, then maybe it just allows you to feel, just for a moment, that I'm not crazy.