It has come to my attention that sometimes the pronunciation of my made-up words does not translate perfectly from my brain via your computer screen to your brain. So, the title of this post, Tomanus, should be pronounced in the following way: Toe-MAY-nuss. Not TOE-manus or TAH-manus. Toe-MAY-nuss.
Good. So now that all things pronunciationish are out of the way, let me return to my topic: homegrown fruits and vegetables, a seemingly dull topic which I will attempt to humorify and lighthearten to make up for a summer’s worth of serious and somber and depression-laced posts. And we’re off!
One of the things I love about Husbandio is how much darn time he spends in the garden, tending to his summer crops. I didn’t used to love this about him. I used to be really annoyed by this. Until, as I shared with you in this post from summer 2010, he told me that one of the ways he loves me is by growing things that we can eat for dinner. Who knew!?!
So now, instead of lamenting the fact that he’s out there in the garden, pruning his whatevers and dividing his thingiemahoochies, I realize he’s out there loving me. It helps me be patient.
In addition to him expressing his love through mulch and compost, creating and tending to a fruit and veggie garden leads to laughter. And for me, there really is no Love without Laughter.
Once this summer, Husbandio walked into the house, holding a small red strawberry, one only slightly bigger than the Darth Vader head on the Lego Darth Vader.
“Look at this!” Husbandio said, holding up the berry, his voice raised a few octaves. “This one looks like a little man!”
Indeed. Right there on what I can only call the butt of the mutant berry, was the face of a little man.
Husbandio and I spent a good number of minutes making the little man-faced mutant berry talk. We both agreed he had a cartoonishly high voice, this man-berry, one that was almost Britishy in affect. “Cheerio!” the berry chirped. “Anyone care for a cuppa?” And then we may or may not have named the British Little-man Berry, “Benny” and carried on with a fairly extensive photo shoot.
That’s the thing about homegrown produce: you’d never find British Little-man Berries at Safeway, not even in the organic section at Whole Foods. We humans prefer to eat pretty fruits and veggies, not fruits and veggies with names and faces and British accents. I get it; we Americans, even more than other cultures, prefer that which is considered pretty. Even if the pretty produce has been genetically modified. Even if the pretty produces tastes bland and blah.
It’s the same with fake breasts, of course. There was an old(er) lady at the gym who clearly, CLEARLY, had had modifications done to her pectoral region. When she was lying down on her back for chest presses, the rest of her sagged, while her bosoms stood at full attention. And, the cut of her Lululemon tank revealed the sides of her modifications, filled like taut water balloons.
I thought it was kind of gross. Or, maybe as someone who’s got less and less that stands at attention, certainly no modifications, I was just jealous.
So I checked in with Husbandio. “Hey,” I asked. “Even if you know breasts are fake, even if they look totally out of place on the wearer of the breasts, even if they stand at attention when everything else is sagging, is that still hot?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s still hot.”
OK! And that, boys and girls, is why we have genetically modified produce. The End.
Husbandio’s Harvest o’ Romance was supplemented by weekly pick-ups of Tiny’s Organic CSA. Donut peaches that looked like baby bottoms. Heirloom tomatoes that reminded me of when Sweetie was a baby and her squishy little thighs had crevices and crevasses and folds that often became the resting place of graham cracker crumbed saliva goo. Summer squash that looked like Gonzo’s silhouette.
Then, just last week, Husbandio brought in this late-summer harvest from his love gardens:
Most of it was beautiful. One item, however, made me feel icky.
In case you didn’t read my post where I discuss my dislike of things that have other things growing in them, I do not like things that have other things growing in them. I definitely don’t care for goiters. I don’t like critters that “burrow.” But while I dislike these things, I am also weirdly intrigued by them. Like when I worried that I had a coral colony growing under my ankle skin, I couldn’t stop touching it, poking it, studying it for signs of intelligent life.
So when Husbandio brought in this tomato from the garden, one that appeared to have what I can only assume was an anus, I turned away. “Ew,” I said. “That tomato’s got an anus. A tomanus.”
But then I turned back and examined the anus-ish thing. I’ll admit I even poked around the anus-ish region. I couldn’t help it.
Which made me and Husbandio laugh some more and tell a few off-color jokes and THEN made me wonder what other photos I could find of inappropriate and/or unattractive produce. Well, God bless the internet, because sure nuff I found this photo on Love Carrots, a British blog, which has a special section called The Rude Carrot Club. I’d say this guy (and it is a guy, no doubt) is likely el Presidente of the RCC :
Then, when I mentioned rude carrots to my friend, Anne, she promptly emailed me this photo of a rude avocado (this is Anne’s husband’s hand, not hers. Anne has lovely hands):
So what’s the moral of this blog post?
I don’t know.
I do know that there is something refreshingly honest about homegrown produce. Yes, the avocados may have protuberances and the tomatoes may have bottoms and the carrots may have been caught mid-orgy. But there’s something kind of cool about getting what nature gives you. Even if it has a man-face and speaks in a British accent.
As I get older, I find myself seeking that which feels Real: people who wear their undies inside-out or almost run over a cranky Orthodox Jewish gentleman or can’t help but prod the tush of a tomato. The Realest of people may not be winning any beauty pageants, but most times, being Real is far prettier and certainly more fun and funny than being Miss America. Unless you’re Benny. I think if you’re Benny, you just have to learn to skate by on your wicked-awesome personality.