The Toasted Tomato

For the past month, I have been having toasted tomato sandwiches for lunch. And every day, as I sit down to eat, I’ve been thinking of my dad.

Toasted tomato sandwiches became a summer tradition in my house when I was a very young girl. Though at that age I would always cringe at the thought of eating big wedges of tomatoes in a salad or shudder at the prospect of having to eat a chunky red sauce over spaghetti, those sandwiches were always an exception.

When July hit and the tomatoes turned ruby red in our garden, my dad would take his place in front of the toaster. He would slip two slices of rye bread in and pull them out just at the moment they were golden. He’d push butter over one slice and then meticulously place the tomatoes, cut paper thin with the knife he’d just sharpened, on top of it. Then he’d spread a veritable dollop of Hellmann’s mayonnaise over the other piece of toast and crown his creation with it.

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OK, so. For the first time in my 34 years, I’ve just had my survival skills tested in the face of a home break-in. Result? Desperately lacking.

A few minutes ago, I decided to have a shower in an effort to put off writing my column. While in said shower, I thought I heard some knocking. To be sure, I stopped washing my hair and stood still for a moment. The knocking continued in a consistent manner but did not sound like it was coming from the door. Since a spring hailstorm has insurance companies buying everyone in our subdivision new roofs this summer, I decided the neighbors must have started their project and continued enjoying my shower.

I was in final rinse-off mode when I opened my eyes. Through the glass wall of the shower and in the reflection of the vanity mirror, I could see a very tall, hulking man standing in our master bedroom. Instantly, I started screaming. Not a cute scream, not a girly scream, but an “Aahhhhh! Aaaahhh!” scream that sounded like Jodie Foster in that movie “Nell,” the one about the woman who was raised in the woods.

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