Dry Cleaning and Fruit

Our dry cleaner loves us. Maybe it's the truckload of clothes we drop off each week. I figure by now, we have put several of his children through collage and purchased him at least one new car.

This is why he gives us fruit.

Apparently, he owns a farm where he spends his Sundays in bucolic bliss planting and harvesting a variety of fruits and vegetables.

Then, he spends his Mondays doling out the bounty along with the claim checks. Sort of like when you go to the movies and spend $18 on a bag of popcorn and $26 on two candy bars and they throw in the soda for free.

Some Mondays it's ten pounds of apples, others it's peaches and a watermelon, and still others it's some strange looking, unidentifiable squash, I think.

A few weeks ago, it was a tomato. One perfect, ripe, juicy tomato that just fit in the palm of my hand.

It was also a holiday, and we had some running around to do. So Tim and I took our tomato, and off we went.

First, I held the tomato. Then, I put it on the center console, but it rolled. Tim suggested my purse (tomato puree, anyone?), or the glove box (baked tomato?). I worried about out poor little tomato (I worried about it ending up all over my white shorts or the bottom of my flip-flops).

I found a shady nook for it when we ran into the CVS. I tucked it away carefully when we ran into the mall. I put it in the cup holder as soon a Tim finished his soda. I protected that tomato (and the leather seats) from harm. Until our last stop.

Tim's sister was returning home after being out of town for the weekend. It had been a long trip filled with traffic, road construction, and more traffic, so we decided to meet her, help her unload some boxes and then go to dinner.

When we got out of the car, I took my precious tomato that I had guarded so closely all day and handed it to her while I reached for the dog.

"A gift for you, after your long trip," I said, tongue in cheek, "to help you feel better."

"Thanks," she replied. And, without really looking or missing a beat, she squeezed what she thought was a stress ball... all over herself and the garage.

And to think I was worried that that poor little tomato would end up all over my shorts.