Tomatoes cont...

Mrs. McCullough is petite and very graceful. The elegance of her green silk gown was enhanced by the wisteria purple leather of our couch. She was wearing a delicate gold and emerald pendant surrounded by small diamonds, and her green eyes sparkled more than usual. I thought this might be how Scarlet O’Hara would have looked some years down the road. Awestruck by how stunningly beautiful she looked that evening, I was having a difficult time concentrating on my duties as a host.

Judy and I had totally forgotten to eat lunch that day. When we finally picked up our forks around the table, we both ate heartily of every course. I nearly made the faux-pas of getting up to take away the plates from the salad course when I noticed that Mrs. McCullough was still enjoying the last bites of hers. She paused, her fork in mid-air, one bite of tomato pricked onto it, and asked, “Now, Judy, what did you do to these?”

At first, Judy seemed a bit taken aback. It was indeed an odd question.

“Oh, nothing special, Mrs. McCullough.”

“Now, come on, tell me,” insisted our guest, “I know you did something. I swear I have never tasted such delicious tomatoes in all my life. They are absolutely exquisite.”

“I didn’t do anything special. Really.” reiterated Judy, blushing with embarrassment, “just salt and pepper and a bit of garlic and olive oil. Nothing else. Unless I’m forgetting something.”

“No vinegar?”

“No. No vinegar.”

“I could swear I taste one of these newfangled, fancy vinegars in there. No tarragon vinegar?”

Judy answered a silent “no” with her eyes and a shake of her head.

Mrs. McCullough carried the piece of tomato to her lips, touched it with the tip of her tongue, and slipped her tongue back inside her mouth with a look of bewilderment on her face. “No.” She shook her head knowingly. “No, it’s not tarragon.” She paused and licked her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue again. “But what is it?” She brought the fork back to her mouth, elaborately licked the skin on the small piece of tomato, and suddenly wolfed it down.
I could see that Mr. McCullough was getting a bit embarrassed at her overly relaxed behaviour, her unusual exaggeration.

“Such a delicate flavour, really, but I do taste it.” She put another piece in her mouth. I could almost picture it disintegrating in there, and it was finally with obvious regret that she allowed it to slide down her throat.

By now, Mr. McCullough was a little tense and red in the neck. His large strawberry nose looked ready to light up like a bulb on a Christmas tree. He tried to catch Mrs. McCullough’s eye, but she was ignoring him. He ran three of his fingers back and forth a few times inside the front of his buttoned shirt collar, as if to loosen it, and he swallowed once noisily, before reaching for his napkin again for the umpteenth time and dabbing his already clean lips. It wasn’t the first time I had noticed Mrs. McCullough ignoring her husband like that. I suppose it was just her way of saying, “Relax, Old Boy.”

“Are they from the market?” continued Mrs. McCullough.

“Yes,” said Judy, giving me a strange look which I didn’t understand. If I had thought about it, I would have realized she was lying because neither yesterday nor today had she gone to the market.