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I fear tomatoes, even bearing gifts

Lately, thinking perhaps too much about my grade 12 Latin translation of the Aeneid and the warnings of the Trojan priest Laocoön about the Gift Horse left by the Greeks (timeō Danaōs et dōna ferentes: I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts), and finding myself lacking anything otherwise meaningful to occupy my time in retirement, I’ve begun to wonder about tomatoes. Not, I hasten to add, about whether they are members of the fruit cartel, or its vegetable rival, but fearing online trolling whichever camp I join, I have decided to subscribe to neither.

No, I have been wondering instead, about whether they are responsible for my occasional bouts of dyspepsia, or, as my mother used to say when I ate too many cherries (in those days, a similar colour as tomatoes), bouts of the ‘collywobbles’ -the etymology of which may be wrapped in the mists of prediluvian Winnipeg.

Clearly, history provides several reasons to fear tomatoes as did many Europeans in the 18th century[i]: aristocrats of the time (the only people who could afford to eat them on pewter dishes, I assume) seemed to die early, especially if they put as many tomatoes as I do on salads. History does not record the numbers, however. Anyway, the thought occurred to me that perhaps I should cut down on my own consumption, but Googling further, I quickly realized that unlike the aristocracy of yore’s lead-laden pewter ware, the tomato’s inherent acidity would be unable to leach much lead from the paper plates I use.

Still, I mistrust the company they keep (the tomatoes, that is); I’ve heard bad things about their Family. True, some of the members of the Solanaceae are truly above board -potatoes for example, and of course the peppers, and even, I suppose, the eggplant (although I would have given that up for adoption if I’d been the mother)- but when I think of Solanaceae, my thoughts turn more to horror movies and Nightshady-things like belladonna. I have to hope that our Food and Drug surveillance is up to snuff here in Canada.

Whenever I mention my concerns to seemingly receptive strangers with whom I have been forced to share a seat on the bus however, I always get an earful about the helpful antioxidants tomatoes are reputed to contain; one smiling elderly lady even went so far as to attempt to pronounce lycopene, although declined to spell it when I tried to write it in the note section of my phone.

People, especially when they think they are proselytizing anonymously, seem surprisingly defensive about tomatoes, I find; I’m not sure why that is. Perhaps they simply feel a need to justify their peccadilloes lest they be judged unfairly before they pull the little wire above their heads to get off the bus. None of us wish to depart unshriven, I suppose.

Still, since no one in the accessible travelling Public seemed willing to grant any acceptance of my Solanaceaen concerns, I soon learned to channel my friendly banter into more acceptable subjects. I avoided any mention of food, although travelling on a bus through most of the major borborygmic times of day was still a challenge. Hunger does strange things to people, and Pied Piper-like, often leads their thoughts and words to dietary ports of call.

I thought I was safe the time I sat beside a man in a dark overcoat and a grey fedora; he was ensconced in a book and kept turning the pages like a slow but noisy metronome. Suddenly the rhythm stopped and I glanced at the book wondering what had happened. There, on one of the pages, was a large reddish stain, and I quickly averted my eyes in case it was evidence of a heinous crime that he had not remembered to clean.

He noticed my eyes and smiled. “Lycopene from a sliced tomato,” he said, and when I seemed surprised, decided to explain. “I’m a teacher and I must have left this book open on my desk in the classroom at lunch…” He tried to sigh silently, but even on the noisy bus it was audible. “We have so little time to prepare our lessons, that sometimes I buy a sandwich in the morning before school, and eat it at my desk between classes…”

“Where does lycopene come into it?” I asked, pretending I actually knew what it was.

He shrugged. “I teach English Literature,” he explained. “All I know about lycopene is that people say it is good for you… Not for book pages, though…” He carefully closed the book, all the while sighing in annoyance.

“Lettuce and tomato sandwiches?” I ventured, proud of my guess, but careful not to suggest I had something against tomatoes.

“That wouldn’t even last me till recess,” he said, trying to smile away the damage to his precious book. “No, I usually go for a BLT -with extra bacon…”

“Doesn’t it upset your stomach?” I ventured, warily.

He seemed surprised. “You mean the collywobbles?” He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

It was my turn to be surprised. “Collywobbles? Where did you learn that word?”

“My mother used it to tell me what bacon did to your tummy,” he explained, almost whispering the last word embarrassedly. “Too much salt… or was it fat? I forget.”

“My god, my mother blamed tomatoes with the same collywobble word…”

The man smiled. “Our mothers were both of an age, I suspect.”

I nodded at that. “So… why do you still eat bacon, if I may ask?” I was curious why he, too, had ignored the injunction, hoping that his mother hadn’t warned him off bacon for religious reasons.

“Do you still eat tomatoes?” he responded with a twinkle in his eye.

I tried to look as if I was sorry if I’d given in to the occasional temptation. So I simply shrugged to show it had been a battle, but one that I’d managed to win over the years.

His smile slowly consumed his face like the memory of a good sandwich. “But we’re both still alive, despite the well-intentioned advice eh?”

My smile grew in proportion to his and I nodded my head gratefully. You can learn a lot about food on a bus, don’t you think?

[i] https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/why-the-tomato-was-feared-in-europe-for-more-than-200-years-863735

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