I don’t know what my problem is. I just love the deformed tomatoes. The lumpy, cracked, scarred kind. Something about all the different textures makes the colors more striking, the shape more beautiful. They don’t sell as well, they’re worth less, but I smile every time I see a good one, a really unusual one. On these long humid days, the promise of something new down the vine is what keeps me crawling on my hands and knees, moving slowly on the row.

To quote Miss Meredith, in truth:

Whoever chose a muted turquoise for tomato cartons was a genius.

Six dollars at the art show at chicken alley, last weekend. I stopped in there with my parents on my way off-island for the day, and decided that the stand must have yet another ceramic chicken, this ceramic chicken, long inconvenient journey be damned. I carried her all over boston by her skinny little neck, nearly left her behind on the bus. But she’s here now.