> ## Content Index
> Fetch the complete content index at: https://dianaludwick.com/llms.txt
> Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further.

# Tomato
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/tomato/
- Published: 2026-08-31T15:16:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:05:20.000Z
- Description: “Tomato,” an account of a crime of passion, written Monday, August 31, 2026 poem 243 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Essence of Summer, heirloom tomato with salt and oil on board," by Diana Ludwick © 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Culinary, Dry Humor, Eating and Drinking, Food Tourism, Generational, Humor, Of Place, Poems, Recipes for Life, Afford, Attention, August, Autumn, Earthy, Essence, Family Dinner, Farmers Market, Floral, Heirloom tomato, In These Tariff Times, Late Summer, Lingers, Noon, Pumpkin, Raw Materials, Soil-Grown, Summer, Tariff Times, Tellicherry Pepper, Tongue, Varietal, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

In these Tariff Times, I can afford but one tomato.  
An heirloom varietal, hunted and gathered from the market.  
  
This vessel of August was meant to serve for family dinner;   
but I find myself washing it,   
polishing the ridged orb it with a linen towel,   
carrying it to the counter to dispatch before noon.  
  
I slice it with tender strokes, cautious as so not   
to catch and drag ragged edges in the skin with my knife pull.  
Five wagon wheels and a perky stemmed pumpkin-ribbed top.  
  
Gathering my wee pinch pot crystal bowl   
mounded gently with flaked Maldon sea salt,  
I pour greedy glugs of festival-winning olive oil from a cruet.  
Tomato rounds in front of me carry the essence of late summer,  
of warm rains and searing heat, tossed by house-shuddering storms   
and a testament to surviving the footprints of bugs and butterflies.  
  
I palm the first heavy piece,   
I slurp it into my mouth as if a soft shell oyster.  
While the briny minerals melting off the salt   
and her pinky-clear juices keep the ocean on my mind,  
the earthy sweetness of soil-grown fruit   
soon commands my attention.  
  
The flecks of Tellicherry pepper   
and floral swirls of first-press olives  
create the kind of concerto that only beckons   
from instruments crafted of the finest raw materials.  
  
I pause to call my family down to join me, but words fail.  
Since my mouth is ajar already, I slot in one more tomato,  
and then another, and then another.   
I leave the top on the board; I can be generous.  
"There's a bit of tomato left!" I call out.  
  
\= = =   
  
August lingers on my tongue;  
may it keep me warm   
and light-filled as autumn knocks.