Yesterday Timmy and I shared our first tomato from the garden sandwich.  He made it on bread bought at the Farmer's Market, tomato sliced thin, small amount of mayonaise (I would have used a bit more) and some fresh ground pepper.  Delicious.  It is one of the greatest pleasures of summer, that taste that is like no other.  Oh, sometimes the store bought ones taste close, or you think they do, but that taste is exquisite.

I remember one tomato sandwich Chrissie and I shared.  We were on a bus in Ireland, going to get on a ferry to go to England.  The bus stopped at a roadside stand, and we pooled our money to buy a saran wrapped sandwich.  It was a tomato, on plain white bread, thin slice of onion and Irish mayonaise.  We each took a bite, and then looked at each other in amazement.  "This is wonderful", we both said, and ate slowly, trying to make it last.  Later, licking our fingers, we asked each other, "Was it because we were on an adventure in Ireland that it tasted so good?", No, it was just the garden grown tomato and that little taste of onion. 

Timmy and I have a similar ceremony when we have reached the end of the garden and share the "last tomato sandwich".  It is not as happy an occasion as yesterday, but it feels right.  Every season must end, but there is also that hope, that anticipation of the next year's first tomato.