I digress. I’m aware.
And it’s Summer, yes, with a capital S. The season that comes right after our 2-hour long Spring here in Middle Georgia. Doesn’t Summer have such promise—long days that I just love and waste foolishly sometimes or can one waste wisely or cleverly; fireflies that stop me in my tracks and remind me of all things childhood—every year I remember that I did not remember that they were so big when I was so little; peaches that have withstood yet another spring freeze threat—peaches, their juices running down my arms while I’m eating one after another over my kitchen sink, bettered only by tomatoes grown in my own soil which I’m also eating one after another over my kitchen sink—therefore the name of that famous delicacy, the Kitchen Sink Tomato Sandwich. Some white bread, Hellman’s full-of-fat mayonnaise, about ¼ inch slathered on each bread slice, salt and pepper, and as many tomato slices as will fit your mouth—and eaten you-know-where! The Royal Windsor family is served nothing better, nothing.
In fact, I believe all the ills of the world can be lessened, no, eliminated, by making several billion of these sandwiches every day and delivering them all over. Imagine—Hugo Chavez would give away oil. Mahmoud Amahdenijad would disavow nuclear arms. Sonny Purdue would appropriate money for mental health treatment in Georgia but he’d probably need two and that’s fine. We would go as peacemakers offering the lowly tomato. I cannot find a single fault in that plan.
Oh, I’ve done it again—I’ve digressed.
But I ask you, what’s wrong with suggesting this tomato sandwich scheme? Does anybody know a single person who would rather, say, blow up the world than eat a tomato sandwich? I think this is the campaign we should promote. Or maybe I’ve over-served myself with tomato sandwiches.
And it’s Summer, yes, with a capital S. The season that comes right after our 2-hour long Spring here in Middle Georgia. Doesn’t Summer have such promise—long days that I just love and waste foolishly sometimes or can one waste wisely or cleverly; fireflies that stop me in my tracks and remind me of all things childhood—every year I remember that I did not remember that they were so big when I was so little; peaches that have withstood yet another spring freeze threat—peaches, their juices running down my arms while I’m eating one after another over my kitchen sink, bettered only by tomatoes grown in my own soil which I’m also eating one after another over my kitchen sink—therefore the name of that famous delicacy, the Kitchen Sink Tomato Sandwich. Some white bread, Hellman’s full-of-fat mayonnaise, about ¼ inch slathered on each bread slice, salt and pepper, and as many tomato slices as will fit your mouth—and eaten you-know-where! The Royal Windsor family is served nothing better, nothing.
In fact, I believe all the ills of the world can be lessened, no, eliminated, by making several billion of these sandwiches every day and delivering them all over. Imagine—Hugo Chavez would give away oil. Mahmoud Amahdenijad would disavow nuclear arms. Sonny Purdue would appropriate money for mental health treatment in Georgia but he’d probably need two and that’s fine. We would go as peacemakers offering the lowly tomato. I cannot find a single fault in that plan.
Oh, I’ve done it again—I’ve digressed.
But I ask you, what’s wrong with suggesting this tomato sandwich scheme? Does anybody know a single person who would rather, say, blow up the world than eat a tomato sandwich? I think this is the campaign we should promote. Or maybe I’ve over-served myself with tomato sandwiches.