Wow, thank you for ordering me. You’re going to love…wait.
No, no, wait, don’t peel me off. Throw it at the bottom of Wendy’s bag fly. I promise, I’m tasty. I’m juicy and sweet. This acidic complement is perfect for getting through the grilled ground beef and melted American cheese. If you give me a chance, we will make a beautiful burger together.
Florida tomato? What is Flor-i-Da tomato? I was clearly a charming purple heirloom raised by a country woman in the hood, raised in a raised bed surrounded by compost and mulch bottom blankets. My deep, rich, um, I am special, so that you can see clearly…
Are you okay. you know what? You win. I’m tired of begging for love from a tense foodie on the patio where I had a Sauvignon Blanc, a patio that is more tilled than my field.
I’m Florida Field Tomato, baby! I was a big AG husky golden kid flops the catered lunch buffet next to a sweaty cold cut. I was carved a bit on top of the sad iceberg rift, drowning slippery on the ranch, and even threw it at Jester in stock at Renaissance Fair. I glow when it becomes obscure with cheese and breadcrumbs.
That’s because I’m designed to get tough and literally go far away with long distance tracks where Steely Dan squeals in taxis. I was barely pigmented, and was too early, artificially ripened with gas. I’m told that it’s “red enough to become a flag.”
I taste like watermelon skin sprinkled on bath water. By the time you suffer through my bland, incredible appearance, you are very removed from the memories of flavor that barely notice my bone-white core. Caprese? Like Craprese. Angel, for me, you have never had such an okay time.
But you’re trying to eat more on me, so get over it. Since July 14th, President Donald Trump’s administration has slapped 21% tariffs on Mexico’s tomatoes. It has long ruled the tomato kingdom with low-cost greenhouses and optimal conditions. Well, the public deals in the 1990s disguised me like I was sunburned. Come back to Pony Up or Dad!
The important people who have the title are fighting me, so why aren’t you? On the one hand, Mexico says it uses rotten, unfair trade practices on tomato farmers in Florida. Others believe that tariffs will juice the costs of everyone, not just Mexico, and the trade war and the sweep of immigration have made my brother cheeky and die on a vine.
What do you think? I’m away from politics, buttercup. Just split us up in a way that a 19-year-old subway sandwich artist named Caden splits me into a plastic tub. The truth is, even if they call me “water-solid cardboard” and “styrofoam”, it makes people happy that they’re talking about me again.
For too long I was abandoned on a diner placemat pulled from the BLTS (BLS) and handed over for a picnic on July 4th, in favor of my priest, Ketchup. There’s nothing ketchup without me. So, of course, when boiled down in metric tons of corn syrup, I taste great. Sugar lips. The same goes for everything.
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But I deserve as much love as the pearly red stars that shine in your summer pasta salad. So you’re going to love me whether you like it or not. Remember next time, when you’re spitting out Mexican Rome with your spit while lying on the curb outside Circle K. The condition is ripe enough for my comeback and is about to grow.
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