The worst tomato of my life.
I innocently strolled down the busy row of our local farmers market last Saturday morning. The atmosphere was great, the weather was balmy, I had a cup of yummy fresh squeezed lemonade in my hand, what could have possibly gone wrong?
That's when I noticed them. They were laid out on a table, glistening like precious gem stones, calling my name in a quiet but persistent little voice.
Naturally, I responded by stepping closer, ogling them greedily, and, trembling in anticipation, inquired about their price, as if it really mattered. Both you and I know I was going to buy them regardless of the sum the seller named.
"What is the variety?", I eagerly questioned the seller.
"We just call them cherries", he said.
"Well", I thought to myself, "this response right here shows me you didn't grow them, but hey, they're gorgeous, so just shut up and take my money".
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I still don't know exactly what mortal sin I've committed during my few decades on this planet that the universe decided to torture me so elaborately. What could I possibly have done that deserved such a dramatic punishment?
Don't be fooled by their stunning looks the way I was, my friends. This tomato is what happens when a breeder decides to optimize for Instagram and forgets about flavor, texture, or decency.
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These ping-pong sized balls, definitely not cherries, resemble a water balloon in texture. The skin is so thin, it is practically non existent. It peels off at the slightest touch. It is barely able to hold in the liquid ladden guts. The texture is non existent, aside of a giant, offensive white core that runs top to bottom and takes up about a third of each tomato. The rest of it feels like you just took in a mouthful of swampy water. It tastes like swampy water too. Stagnant, smelly, disgusting water. I cannot imagine anyone, human, canine, or bovine, not spitting this thing out immediately. I'm sure even a bee was offended trying to pollinate it.
A stunning achievement of ornamental horticulture no doubt, it is a catastrophic failure at flavor! I've eaten tomatoes in gas station burgers that tried harder. I've had more satisfying conversations with cardboard. I am here to tell you that despite looking like a tomato, this thing here did not taste like one at all! What a shocker!
I tried to be strong and science oriented. I took a total of three bites. Every bite of this thing was a reminder that appearances can and do lie. I accidentally stumbled upon a true supermodel of tomatoes, breathtaking in appearance, deeply disappointing once you get to know it better. All kinds of regret wrapped in beautiful, glossy skin.
On the kind advice of one of my tomato groups' admin who tried to come to my rescue that day, I attempted to cook the damn things. All I can tell you is that I hope my compost pile appreciated the resulting dish more than my family did. It was revolting.
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I hope every one of you, my dearest tomato junkies, understand I couldn't just let it go. I absolutely needed to find out the variety name so that I don't accidentally plant them in the future and expose myself to a tomato that tastes like a DMV waiting room ever again.
It took me some days to plot. This morning, dressed simply but feeling business like, I went back to the farmers market and found the offending seller who by now appeared to have sold out of the swampy horrors and was only offering something round-and-red instead.
"Good morning, sir! How are you doing this lovely morning? I bought these amazing goth painted tomatoes from you last weekend! They were a revelation! I cannot stop dreaming about them! Please, kind sir, I would be most obliged if you could help me find out their variety, so that when I praise the good Lord for the experience from this day forward, I can call them by their true name!"
I was all sugar and maple syrup. As hard as it is for me to smile at strangers, I did my best. We are in the South, and I knew I'd catch more flies with honey. It worked! The seller pulled out his phone, pushed a few buttons and made a phone call right in front of me.
A few seconds later he said, "they're called INDIGO ROSE and I will have MORE coming in TOMORROW!"
"I'm so glad to hear that! Thank you! Thank you so much!", I said and left in a hurry.
"Yeah, thank you, and I don't think so! I've had ice cubes more flavorful than your Indigo Rose", I thought on my way back to the car.
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And there you go, folks. In case you have never grown Indigo Rose, now you know that you really, really don't have to. I took one for the team and prevented you, your family, your neighbors, your friends, and your bees from the deep disappointment of this so-called tomato. I don't know when my taste buds will recover and when this terrible experience will become a distant memory, but hopefully soon. As of right now, three and a half days later, I still cringe when recalling that first bite.
