Tomatoes cont...

“Which stall are they from?” Mrs. McCullough was obviously determined to procure some for herself.

“Actually, I don’t usually buy from any particular farmer. I really couldn’t tell who it was I got these from. I’ll try to remember next time I’m at the market,” said Judy, still staring at me with that ‘shut up, will you!’ look. I was absolutely perplexed.

“Well, whatever you did, Judy, these are the best tomatoes I have tasted in a long time. You are a wonderful cook!”

Mrs. McCullough wiped her mouth and placed her napkin back on her lap. Some legs were crossed or uncrossed under the table, Mr. McCullough repositioned himself on his chair, and more wine was poured into the half-empty glasses, as though to mark the official end of another course. A lively conversation ensued between Mrs. McCullough and Judy about the art of getting the butcher to save the choice pieces of meat for them.

“Never send your husband to the butcher shop,” said Mrs. McCullough, laughing.

“Believe me, I know first-hand,” said Judy. “Every self-respecting butcher looks upon husbands as perfect opportunities for dumping their tough bits.”

She was right: how often had I been sent to Vandenhoof’s Meat Shop only to come back to Judy’s well-expressed ire as she unwrapped the dreaded piece of meat the butcher had surreptitiously sneaked inside the brown wrapper for me. By the look on Mr. McCullough’s face, I could tell he had suffered the same humiliation. The two women animated the conversation for a while with anything but serious talk; they were very much on the same wavelength. That evening would be the beginning of a lasting friendship, of that special kind of friendship that only seems to exist between two women of different generations, and we all knew it instinctively.

When our guests had gone and we were filling the dishwasher before going up to bed, I said, “Well, Darling, I think they were suitably impressed. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I think so,” said Judy. She was holding a fork in one hand and a knife in the other. She didn’t bother to place them in the dishwasher basket. She put her arms around me and planted a promising kiss on my lips.

“Just one thing though, Judy,” I said, returning to our task, “what did you put in the tomatoes?”

She stopped and glared at me as though I were some sort of moron. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything, I swear!” she said emphatically after a few seconds of staring. “Salt! Pepper! Garlic! Olive Oil!” She enumerated the ingredients slowly and with absolute exasperation in her voice. “How many times must I repeat that? What is the matter with all of you tonight?”

Later when she reached the landing on the stairs, she turned to me, a mischievous look on her face. “Martin, I do have a confession to make.”