The quote above comes from Jean-Claude Biver, who is in the business of watchmaking but makes cheese recreationally. According to the latest issue of The Economist, Biver's cheese is famously delicious. He makes "only" 5 tonnes per year, and it would fetch a fortune on the open market. But while an entrepreneurial fellow, Biver chooses to give it all away: "If I don't sell it, then I decide who gets it and who doesn't."
This story reminded me of my grandfather's tomatoes. Papa's garden was a magical place. He dabbled in a lot of produce -- apples, pears, peaches, muscadines, beans, squash, cukes, zukes, corn, etc. -- but his tomatoes were famous. His friends would save their milk cartons all year long, and Papa would cut them into square pots where he would germinate his tomato seeds under lamps or in the hothouse in the middle of winter.
In his retired years, especially after Gram died, gardening was a full time job, and Papa's tomatoes were very well cared for. He watered through droughts. He weeded with the care of sculptor. He used insecticides and fertilizers that Elaine wouldn't handle with a hazmat suit.
The results were tomatoes by the gallon, peck, and bushel. In good years, the mud room was full of sacks, cartons, and boxes with lush fruit. In bad years the output was still prodigious. Papa's largess went to family, friends, and neighbors. Instead of taking flowers to someone sick or grieving, Papa would bring tomatoes. Mom would put up sauce each summer, and we would eat them over spaghetti year round.
The reason Biver's story made me think of Papa is that Papa loathed being asked for his tomatoes. His pastor (or the pastor's wife, I can't remember) once requested that Papa provide tomatoes for some church function. He complied, but he did so in a way that made it clear that such a request was a sacrifice, not a free-love offering. A stranger once pulled into the driveway and asked to buy some fruit. Papa was nonplussed. He told the man in no uncertain terms that his tomatoes were not for sale. Papa then proceeded to give the fellow a few, just to get him to leave.
Sadly, I didn’t develop much of a taste for fresh tomatoes until Papa was gone. I sure wish the old codger was still around. I would love to share a BLT with him (mine without mayonnaise, maybe with a Schlitz beer or a Coke) and introduce him to Huck. Papa, you are loved and missed; God rest your soul.
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Nostalgia is a dangerous thing. I tend towards thinking too much about the past, and missing the joys of the present. That said, I don't ever want to stop missing my grandfather. Our grandfather/grandson relationship was pretty idyllic. I got the best of him. By the time I came around, he had mellowed from his younger days, and we were never in such proximity that he (visibly) tired of spending time with me. The things we did together -- picnics, trips to state parks or educational attractions, cooking, eating, piddling around the yard, watching tv -- weren't special because they were fun and stimulating, they were special because he was special to me.
