With apologies to Colin Nissan.
I don’t know about you, but I have been waiting all year to wrap my hands around some tasty, tender tomatoes and arrange them in colorful patterns on my kitchen counter.
That shit is going to look like the embodiment of late summer. I’m dusting off my harvesting baskets and steel bowls, jamming them with juicy, just-off-the-vine tomatoes of every color.
When my guests come over, it’s like, BLAMMO! Check out my overflowing bounty of luscious, juicy tomatoes, assholes. Guess what season it is — fucking harvest season! There’s a feeling of ripeness in the air and my house is full of tender fucking tomatoes.
And you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to throw some multi-colored tomatoes into a roasting pan, and I’m going to drizzle them with some genuine California olive oil and then I’m going to slow-roast them until their scrumptious flavors have bubbled up into a taste explosion.
And when people come over and smell the aroma of roasting tomatoes in my kitchen, they’re going to be like, “Aren’t those tomatoes smelling up your house?” And I’m going to spread another perfected roasted purple Cherokee onto a slice of homemade sourdough and quietly reply, “It’s harvest season, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this tasty bounty or you’re not.”
Roasting purple, yellow, orange and red tomatoes sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. There is no more ideal food than a perfectly roasted tomato, and I am going to roast tomatoes until there are no more tomatoes to roast.
Why? Because it’s not that long stretch when the garden is growing but nothing is ripe, and it’s not spring or winter or the post-frost fall yet. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it’s harvest season, fuckers.
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a t-shirt, some light overalls and a floppy fucking hat and kneel down in my garden and keep picking this near-endless stream of ripe tomatoes for the next six weeks, or until the first frost. The first skunk that tries to sneak in and steal my ripe tomatoes is going to get his stinky ass bitch-slapped all the way back to the long days of early summer, when the plants are green but so are the tomatoes.
Welcome to harvest season, fuckheads!
Today’s parody post is based on this McSweeney’s classic by Colin Nissan.
I feel your blessings. We had that with okra this year. Yea, our fucking tomato plants went nuts. For months MONTHS we ate Roma and cherry tomatoes like they were manna from fucking heaven. But they stopped last month. Long after the winding tomato vines ceased reproduction, the okra continue to bless us with fucking okras. The plants are taller than the Florida glamour-yard tarp-covered wood-working area. Fried okra, gumbo (several kinds), stewed okra and tomatoes (from a can now, since the fucking grocery-store tomatoes taste like shit after a summer of fresh fucking tomatoes). I love your entry! Bon apetit! Enjoy your fucking tomatoes!
roasted tomato season >>>>> decorative gourd season!!!
a season of harvest begins…with the pandemic end-game unknown, the reality of a ripe roma tomato nearly exceeds bliss. i was generally turned off by the f-bombs in this piece…seemed a bit excessive, though i am only a small sample size. i reckon i could treat those as i do the various bugs that bespeck the roma i just picked…flicked off before consumption, offering a blessing on the way.
This probably my all time fav post not just because I actually converse like this but it made me laugh – out loud – a lot. Wish I grow tomatoes in Florida too fuckin hot too fuckin humid. But I can grow a different nightshade, it is fuckin eggplant season bitches. Thanks for link to the inspiration.
Dave Witt -here in Ocala, in central Florida, the heat index the other day was 120. 120! While most of our food plants suffer in the excessive heat, the okra went nuts (we are STILL getting okra). Mu eggplants were super productive, but successively smaller and smaller – shrinking into teeny little purple orbs.