So, I'm at the grocery store this morning (and my fingers always, always try to type "grocery story," but I assure you, it's just a Meijer), and I buy tomatoes, like one does, even though one hates tomatoes, because there are certain husbands that like them and because there are certain things that even one who hates tomatoes needs them to be in, like guacamole.

Not that I buy avocados while I'm at the story store.

I don't like the looks of the vine-ripened tomatoes, and by gum, I'm not buying hothouse tomatoes in August, so it's either grape tomatoes (which I almost like, and sometimes eat of my own free will) or this little package of fun mini heirloomy tomatoes in a variety pack, with like a Mr. Stripey kind of thing and some yellow and orange and tiny red tomatoes. The rationale is: "Well, I've never tried THESE tomatoes. These might be magic tomatoes. Like the time I ate a German Pink grown by the Amish with venison and it was the best thing I'd ever eaten."

Because, see, I'm complicated, and I can't just dislike something unilaterally, I guess.

Later, I'm looking for lunch, and I think, "I have some fresh mozzarella that's about to become a lot less fresh." So I envision a tomato-mozzarella-pesto sandwich. Only, the bread is frozen or hiding, and I have pita. Only, I don't have pesto, I have basil. Only, I still don't like tomatoes.

But nonetheless, I fire up the griddle and slice one each of all five varieties of the mini tomatoes I bought today and start frying them. I can't eat them fresh, but I might enjoy them cooked. Might. I throw some white balsamic vinegar in there, too. Towards the end, I throw down purple and spicy globe and sweet basil leaves snipped fresh from the garden on there, and at the last, some of the mozzarella, so it gets a little melty. Then I cram it all into a pita, pop the pita into the toaster oven, and wait.

And when it's done, I eat it. And I don't like it. I like the idea of it, and the cheese is good, and the basil is GREAT, but eck. Tomatoes. I mean, the parts that have tomato juice on them are okay, but the texture of tomatoes is what does me in, and I can't like it.

I look up at Dann at one point and say, "This would be perfect, if I weren't me."

He just shakes his head.

I don't know what he's thinking, but I can guess.

And that was lunch.