LONGVIEW, Texas — The Great Tomato War of Summer 2009 came to its climax with a blindfolded taste test. My neighbor and I have been working on our crops for weeks, preparing for this crucial contest.
OK, all we really do is go out and check our few plants every day or so, pick a couple of juicy offspring, and talk about our produce progeny to distraction.
My neighbor kindly — though unintentionally — waters my plants with runoff from his sprinkler system. We both used string to tie the plants to his chain-link fence and satellite dish — yellow-and-purple twine criss-crossing the property line like a game of cat's cradle gone awry.
It's a good thing there isn't a neighborhood association here, or we might get booted out for covenant violations.
The contest was close. On a recent Saturday afternoon, our better halves ate slices of our finest fruits while wearing sleep masks in lieu of actual blindfolds. I labeled each plate with a piece of tape on the bottom, each of our names written on the tape, so there would be no question of impropriety.
The women had a tough time spearing the slices on the plates while wearing the sleep masks, which provided a measure of amusement for us spectators. Of course, I'm not sure I could hit my mouth with a fork and my eyes covered. Especially while hoisting a juicy slice of tomato.
These were superbly juicy specimens of the ambrosia of summer. I didn't envy the judges' task. My tomatoes were bigger and deeper in color — but almost too juicy for my taste. My neighbor's slices had a more subtle taste and were not nearly as chubby. After photographs were taken to mark the event, the testing began.
My neighbor, who constantly reminds me that he's retired and doesn't have a job, had created placards for each of us. My "farm" was called "Borders' Big Boy Produce Company — Home of the Somewhat Organic Tomato." That's in reference to the fact my plants, which I never fertilized or even watered, appeared to benefit from him fertilizing his yard every three days, and the aforementioned runoff.
I can't remember exactly what he named his crop, but it had to do with the satellite dish to which the plants were tied. I've heard he can't tune in to ESPN anymore because of tomato plant interference, though I have yet to confirm the rumor.
The first round ended in a tie, a provision for which we had planned by enlisting another neighbor, who had volunteered to taste and break the tie. However, she went out of town.
Timing is crucial. We're both up to our ears, at least metaphorically, in tomatoes, but soon the plants will wither under the summer sun and quit producing. So my fiancee's 11-year-old daughter was pressed into service. She gamely put on the sleep mask and tasted each tomato.
The irony is the child doesn't even like tomatoes, puts them right down there with string beans and okra as Food To Be Avoided. She considers Flaming Hot Cheetos one of the basic food groups.
Thus, when she picked my entry over my neighbor's, the decision felt slightly tainted. Not so tainted that I turned down the blue ribbon, of course. We had a brief ceremony, shot more photographs, and then pinned the ribbons to the fence and satellite dish, where they flutter in the breeze.
My neighbor is already talking about a rematch once the adult neighbor returns. I'm game for it, if I still have any tomatoes. I have been eating them morning, noon and night. The plants' days are limited, but I still have a few promising Big Boys on the vine.
Besides, if he wins the rematch, we can just swap ribbons and both rest secure in the knowledge that each of us served, albeit briefly, as the Tomato Champion of Nugget Hill.
I must admit eating tomatoes is feeling more like a job these days. Soon, I'm going to need a break in this diet. Maybe I can cadge some Flaming Hot Cheetos from the kid.
Gary Borders is publisher of the Longview News-Journal. E-mail: gborders(at)longview-news.com.
