Tomatoes, in my sandwich. Never loved tomatoes, but with all of the water taken out of them (specifically, by the sun, since conventional methods fail to get the correct taste), they’re passable. I’d take a bite and consider “this is alright.”
They were red and lying on the kitchen counter. Sundried tomatoes The girl smiled at her younger brother, then grabbed his hand and carefully guided it. The knife held in his hand. which was being held in hers, was stead and smooth as it chopped through the delicious fruit. The young boy licked his lips and smiled up at his older sister, who made him pause in his cutting.
“Pay attention, now.” She says softly, smiling.
He nods happily, letting her firm hand guide his as they sliced up the sundried tomatoes.
“Now, take a bite of my sundried tomatoes! Best this side o’ Topeka county!”
I offered my aunt a smile, or tried too; due to my hearty dislike for tomatoes, I’m sure it came out as more of a grimace. “No thanks, Aunt Kay. I’m, uh, still full from lunch.”
She nodded gravely. “Well ’tain’t no need to fret, darlin’! It’s just ‘cos you’re so darn skinny – ain’t got no where ta put anythin’!” taking in my still dour expression, she patted my arm comfortingly. “But don’t ya worry yer pretty lil head now; we’ll fatten ya up in no time!”
My grimace grew at the idea. “That’s…that’s great, Aunt Kay.”
Living in a new place like Ellensburg, aka no where hick Washington really makes a girl feel sun dried some times. Dried up from intense heat. Preserved for winter. More like burnt for winter..
long straight brown hair her
petite muted features
rosy red cheeks
doe eyes
thick eyelashes
big yellow hat her
maroon lips sang of summertime she
was delicately pieced together by
sunwashed by
may june july
In the sun, soaking it up, a life time of baking away her cares, reading, chilling, dreaming of exotic places and once she got there doing the same thing, in the sun, soaking it up, a life time…..
If you even try to force one more of these sundried tomatoes down my throat I’m going to scream! But I’ll have trouble screaming with tomatoes in my throat! What kind of meal is this where you force food down my throat? The chicken wings didn’t work very well because in order to eat those properly I need the use of the force from my hands in order to twist, bend, and rotate the chicken meat to my food hole. Thanks.
sunddried tomatoes that i what i would like to eat. they would taste so sweat and nasty that i would barf them up twenty minutes later. i would make you eat my puke. and i would laugh as you puked yourself. i think that you would then find your own person to make them eat your puke. would you laugh if you did? or would you cry with them? doesnt really matter becouse you made them eat your puke.
He took the box marked “Sundries” and emptied it out in the driveway. Spreading all the items out, he then went to lunch. When he came back, all the sundries had been sundried!
They set sail at once. The harsh afternoon beat down on them, baking their skin. The salty spray was exhilarating, and helped take away the edge from the heat.
They picked tomatoes from the rows of bushes, wet with morning dew and glistening with drops of water. They giggled as they lay their picks in rows and sliced into the plump red fruits with the pocket knife his grandfather gave him as a present, then spread the slivers on a picnic plate to sun out until lunchtime.
We waited for the bus, in this village of fifty-two. The bus driver waited with us, watching the bend in the gravel road and smoking. Our bus had broken down, and no one in town was a mechanic. They would send another bus. It was noon and there was no shade, and we were all getting sundried, bit by bit. Jimmy kept running to the bend to look for the bus, and his mom would wipe the sweat off his face with a towel when he got back. The village kids were shy but tried to sell us lemonade. Their grandmas–faces wrinkled and brown like the top of well-toasted bread–insisted that they give us free samples. It wouldn’t take long for us to be dried up like them, I thought.
She sat in the sun. Soaking up the warmth that caressed her skin ever so softly. It had been a long cold winter. She sat there just soaking up the sun as if she wanted to be sundried like the raisins she was so casually eating.
The sundried tomatoes were tangy and salty in my mouth. They reminded me of summer, of my mother, of the old oak tree in my back yard. This simple meal at this restaurant so far away transported me back to my old life. A life I could never go back to, not that I really wanted to.
When you come out of the surf after a full day’s worth
Wander to the sandy perch above the tumbling shoreline
Soon the salt will crust as the last of the lingering light
Sets upon the line; sit up to find you’ve been sundried
sunflowers hot and wilted and taller than me, i was so tiny and they were so big and the sun was so hot but i could sit in the middle of them all and they would make shade for me, that was the only shade we had in out shitty dirt yard
After all that had happened in the last week, Amelia was glad to turn herself into a sundried raisin. The entire group was so emotionally and physically strung out, though Amelia was the only one who could unwind just by lazing out in the sun. She lay down on her back across the stone walls that followed the path up to the manor, soaking in the warm rays like a lizard. She felt the gentle fingers of the sun touch her skin and spread its energy all over her. There was nothing quite as depressurizing as this for Amelia. She eventually let her arm hang over the side of the stones, felt the muscles in her shoulder and neck relax into the hard therapeutic surface, and pretty soon Amelia gave up to slumber.
The ruddy stretch of once pallid flesh had firmed into a sundried sheath, concealing her contempt for summer in obvious exposure. Peeling back the cucumber over a tired eye, she glanced at her friend and began to plan a wintery revenge. It would come soon enough, for now, she would just lay on the beach in weary silence.
I plcked the tomato out of my salad.
“Dad?”
“Yes sweetie?”
“Why do they dry the tomatoes. They’re so much better fresh and juicy.”
“Some people like sndried tomatoes dearie. It’s just a preference.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what preference was. But it sounded like one of those people who like bad stuff, like mushrooms and bee stings. I knew a Preference. Mr. McAllister, our next-door neighbour was a Preference.
The sundried tomatoes were scattered around the garden. It must have been weeks, maybe even months, since anyone’s tended to it. I walked up the steps of the front porch and knocked on the door. An elderly woman opened it.
“Hello?” She said. “Who are you?”
“Grandma? It’s me. It’s Harriet.”
Grandma squinted at me. “Why, so it is,” she said after a moment of clarity. “Please, come in dear. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I only smiled, holding back tears as I realized her Alzheimer’s was getting worse.
After I had laid out the fillets of red snapper, Uncle Rob proceeded to douse the fish in a homemade, sundried tomato vinaigrette. The smell of herbs and black pepper filled the room, and I could almost taste the crispness of the spinach leaves as we chopped them and layered them onto our meal.
“Into the oven, then?” I asked my uncle with a smile.
“Beautifully baked fish,” he replied. “Just like your mother enjoyed.”
The word entered her mouth like a lemon. It’s funny, she doesn’t think of it often. It’s not a word that is easy to use. Sundried. Even now, she’s not sure why she’s compelled to say it. Maybe it’s the sound of it. The taste of it in her mouth that pushes this mental urge to say, “sundried.” Maybe she’s just hungry. She can’t be certain.
You get dried by the sun when being sundried. This can lead to dehydration which can cause damage to the brain and organs. Your bodytempreture will remain high for quite a while.
Her skin was thin and wrinkly, stretched over her bare bones. She seemed crisp, a deep brown colour, as if she had been left out in the sun too long, and any semblance of flesh, of life, had left her.
There are tiny people who live in the little holes in my telephone receiver, sitting in them like they are dry hot tubs. (I’m talking about the old style receiver you hardly see any more.) One group lives in the holes in the ear end, the other in the holes in the mouth end. They get cranky because it’s always dark when the phone is hung up. So, ever once in a while, I take the phone off the hook, face the handset upwards, and put it in the sun. That’s why sometimes you get a busy signal when you call even though you know I’m home.
I watched the pizza maker intently. I watched him gently drop the pieces of mozzarella cheese, followed by black olives, and what was that last item? Oh yeah, the motherfucking sundried tomatoes. I could not wait to eat this sumptuous masterpiece of deliciousness.
I love sundried tomatoes. In fact, so much, that lately every time we go to Melville’s, I order them to have on my pizza. That and those special peppers, now I cannot recall what they are called, but they are also the greatest. In fact, pizza must be one of the greatest inventions ever.
Cristina peeked through the curtains. They were still out there, in perfect bikinis covering just enough to be legal, laying on beach chairs and towels. There skin was darkening, darkening, brown, and then red. Cristina smiled and let the curtain drop back in place. Then she threw the empty bottle of sleeping pills into the trash before walking out the door.
She had the lost look of a woman who’d long ago stopped making decisions for herself, like someone who’d let guys with beer guts drive her around on the back of their bikes. To him she was just a worn out shell, just waiting to get blown away. So when she offered him a sandwich with sundried tomato aoli, he felt a little ashamed.
I hate tomatoes and I’ve always had to put up with people throwing sundried tomatoes on my pizza, which is honestly quite rude. Can’t I enjoy my mozzarella and basil without having to deal with your sundried tomatoes as well? I guess I know some people that are like the sundried tomatoes of people as well. They pretend not to be tomatoes, but then they are, they’re just awful, and you already committed to ordering the pizza, so you’re stuck with this pizza you want to eat and all these people who are just making it shit, and it takes a while to pick them off and you can never quite get rid of the whole taste of them, but you can try. I guess I’ll start trying, is what I’m saying.
I hate tomatoes and I’ve always had to put up with people throwing sundried tomatoes on my pizza, which is honestly quite rude. Can’t I enjoy my mozzarella and basil without having to deal with your sundried tomatoes as well? I guess I know some people that are like the sundried tomatoes of people as well. They pretend not to be tomatoes, but…
Tomatoes, in my sandwich. Never loved tomatoes, but with all of the water taken out of them (specifically, by the sun, since conventional methods fail to get the correct taste), they’re passable. I’d take a bite and consider “this is alright.”
They were red and lying on the kitchen counter. Sundried tomatoes The girl smiled at her younger brother, then grabbed his hand and carefully guided it. The knife held in his hand. which was being held in hers, was stead and smooth as it chopped through the delicious fruit. The young boy licked his lips and smiled up at his older sister, who made him pause in his cutting.
“Pay attention, now.” She says softly, smiling.
He nods happily, letting her firm hand guide his as they sliced up the sundried tomatoes.
“Now, take a bite of my sundried tomatoes! Best this side o’ Topeka county!”
I offered my aunt a smile, or tried too; due to my hearty dislike for tomatoes, I’m sure it came out as more of a grimace. “No thanks, Aunt Kay. I’m, uh, still full from lunch.”
She nodded gravely. “Well ’tain’t no need to fret, darlin’! It’s just ‘cos you’re so darn skinny – ain’t got no where ta put anythin’!” taking in my still dour expression, she patted my arm comfortingly. “But don’t ya worry yer pretty lil head now; we’ll fatten ya up in no time!”
My grimace grew at the idea. “That’s…that’s great, Aunt Kay.”
Living in a new place like Ellensburg, aka no where hick Washington really makes a girl feel sun dried some times. Dried up from intense heat. Preserved for winter. More like burnt for winter..
The laundry blew in the wind.The lightening struck the ground over and over again.
I looked at the sundried tomatoes
Sundried tomatoes are a mystery. Who ever thought that something that was so unappealing in regular form, would be better if left outside to dry out.
long straight brown hair her
petite muted features
rosy red cheeks
doe eyes
thick eyelashes
big yellow hat her
maroon lips sang of summertime she
was delicately pieced together by
sunwashed by
may june july
sundried.
cey
In the sun, soaking it up, a life time of baking away her cares, reading, chilling, dreaming of exotic places and once she got there doing the same thing, in the sun, soaking it up, a life time…..
More salad, Mr. Johnson?” asked Matilda.
I shook my head. “Sundried tomatoes give me gas. I put up with them the first time so that you would eat yours … and the poison with it.”
If you even try to force one more of these sundried tomatoes down my throat I’m going to scream! But I’ll have trouble screaming with tomatoes in my throat! What kind of meal is this where you force food down my throat? The chicken wings didn’t work very well because in order to eat those properly I need the use of the force from my hands in order to twist, bend, and rotate the chicken meat to my food hole. Thanks.
sunddried tomatoes that i what i would like to eat. they would taste so sweat and nasty that i would barf them up twenty minutes later. i would make you eat my puke. and i would laugh as you puked yourself. i think that you would then find your own person to make them eat your puke. would you laugh if you did? or would you cry with them? doesnt really matter becouse you made them eat your puke.
He took the box marked “Sundries” and emptied it out in the driveway. Spreading all the items out, he then went to lunch. When he came back, all the sundries had been sundried!
They set sail at once. The harsh afternoon beat down on them, baking their skin. The salty spray was exhilarating, and helped take away the edge from the heat.
They picked tomatoes from the rows of bushes, wet with morning dew and glistening with drops of water. They giggled as they lay their picks in rows and sliced into the plump red fruits with the pocket knife his grandfather gave him as a present, then spread the slivers on a picnic plate to sun out until lunchtime.
We waited for the bus, in this village of fifty-two. The bus driver waited with us, watching the bend in the gravel road and smoking. Our bus had broken down, and no one in town was a mechanic. They would send another bus. It was noon and there was no shade, and we were all getting sundried, bit by bit. Jimmy kept running to the bend to look for the bus, and his mom would wipe the sweat off his face with a towel when he got back. The village kids were shy but tried to sell us lemonade. Their grandmas–faces wrinkled and brown like the top of well-toasted bread–insisted that they give us free samples. It wouldn’t take long for us to be dried up like them, I thought.
She sat in the sun. Soaking up the warmth that caressed her skin ever so softly. It had been a long cold winter. She sat there just soaking up the sun as if she wanted to be sundried like the raisins she was so casually eating.
it’s funny how heartbreak can mess with our lives
You left my skin torn, knees weak, and lips dried.
rolled red pressed in plastic
we peel them out
place on crisp crackers
eat
remember
days pressed in the earth
together
pungent with sweat
reddening in the hot sun
The sundried tomatoes were tangy and salty in my mouth. They reminded me of summer, of my mother, of the old oak tree in my back yard. This simple meal at this restaurant so far away transported me back to my old life. A life I could never go back to, not that I really wanted to.
tomatoes
wrinkly
sweet
summer clothes
wrinkled
torn
one of those
wrinkling
brown bodies
all drying
changed
wasting
When you come out of the surf after a full day’s worth
Wander to the sandy perch above the tumbling shoreline
Soon the salt will crust as the last of the lingering light
Sets upon the line; sit up to find you’ve been sundried
sunflowers hot and wilted and taller than me, i was so tiny and they were so big and the sun was so hot but i could sit in the middle of them all and they would make shade for me, that was the only shade we had in out shitty dirt yard
sundried skin. hot summer days seem to hate me. heat and sun and sweat and red skin. nothing worth remembering. everything is fleeting.
After all that had happened in the last week, Amelia was glad to turn herself into a sundried raisin. The entire group was so emotionally and physically strung out, though Amelia was the only one who could unwind just by lazing out in the sun. She lay down on her back across the stone walls that followed the path up to the manor, soaking in the warm rays like a lizard. She felt the gentle fingers of the sun touch her skin and spread its energy all over her. There was nothing quite as depressurizing as this for Amelia. She eventually let her arm hang over the side of the stones, felt the muscles in her shoulder and neck relax into the hard therapeutic surface, and pretty soon Amelia gave up to slumber.
The ruddy stretch of once pallid flesh had firmed into a sundried sheath, concealing her contempt for summer in obvious exposure. Peeling back the cucumber over a tired eye, she glanced at her friend and began to plan a wintery revenge. It would come soon enough, for now, she would just lay on the beach in weary silence.
I plcked the tomato out of my salad.
“Dad?”
“Yes sweetie?”
“Why do they dry the tomatoes. They’re so much better fresh and juicy.”
“Some people like sndried tomatoes dearie. It’s just a preference.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what preference was. But it sounded like one of those people who like bad stuff, like mushrooms and bee stings. I knew a Preference. Mr. McAllister, our next-door neighbour was a Preference.
The sundried tomatoes were scattered around the garden. It must have been weeks, maybe even months, since anyone’s tended to it. I walked up the steps of the front porch and knocked on the door. An elderly woman opened it.
“Hello?” She said. “Who are you?”
“Grandma? It’s me. It’s Harriet.”
Grandma squinted at me. “Why, so it is,” she said after a moment of clarity. “Please, come in dear. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I only smiled, holding back tears as I realized her Alzheimer’s was getting worse.
After I had laid out the fillets of red snapper, Uncle Rob proceeded to douse the fish in a homemade, sundried tomato vinaigrette. The smell of herbs and black pepper filled the room, and I could almost taste the crispness of the spinach leaves as we chopped them and layered them onto our meal.
“Into the oven, then?” I asked my uncle with a smile.
“Beautifully baked fish,” he replied. “Just like your mother enjoyed.”
The word entered her mouth like a lemon. It’s funny, she doesn’t think of it often. It’s not a word that is easy to use. Sundried. Even now, she’s not sure why she’s compelled to say it. Maybe it’s the sound of it. The taste of it in her mouth that pushes this mental urge to say, “sundried.” Maybe she’s just hungry. She can’t be certain.
You get dried by the sun when being sundried. This can lead to dehydration which can cause damage to the brain and organs. Your bodytempreture will remain high for quite a while.
Her skin was thin and wrinkly, stretched over her bare bones. She seemed crisp, a deep brown colour, as if she had been left out in the sun too long, and any semblance of flesh, of life, had left her.
There are tiny people who live in the little holes in my telephone receiver, sitting in them like they are dry hot tubs. (I’m talking about the old style receiver you hardly see any more.) One group lives in the holes in the ear end, the other in the holes in the mouth end. They get cranky because it’s always dark when the phone is hung up. So, ever once in a while, I take the phone off the hook, face the handset upwards, and put it in the sun. That’s why sometimes you get a busy signal when you call even though you know I’m home.
I watched the pizza maker intently. I watched him gently drop the pieces of mozzarella cheese, followed by black olives, and what was that last item? Oh yeah, the motherfucking sundried tomatoes. I could not wait to eat this sumptuous masterpiece of deliciousness.
Reminds me of tomatoes in my garden. I love how they taste in pasta.
I love sundried tomatoes. In fact, so much, that lately every time we go to Melville’s, I order them to have on my pizza. That and those special peppers, now I cannot recall what they are called, but they are also the greatest. In fact, pizza must be one of the greatest inventions ever.
Cristina peeked through the curtains. They were still out there, in perfect bikinis covering just enough to be legal, laying on beach chairs and towels. There skin was darkening, darkening, brown, and then red. Cristina smiled and let the curtain drop back in place. Then she threw the empty bottle of sleeping pills into the trash before walking out the door.
She had the lost look of a woman who’d long ago stopped making decisions for herself, like someone who’d let guys with beer guts drive her around on the back of their bikes. To him she was just a worn out shell, just waiting to get blown away. So when she offered him a sandwich with sundried tomato aoli, he felt a little ashamed.
I hate tomatoes and I’ve always had to put up with people throwing sundried tomatoes on my pizza, which is honestly quite rude. Can’t I enjoy my mozzarella and basil without having to deal with your sundried tomatoes as well? I guess I know some people that are like the sundried tomatoes of people as well. They pretend not to be tomatoes, but then they are, they’re just awful, and you already committed to ordering the pizza, so you’re stuck with this pizza you want to eat and all these people who are just making it shit, and it takes a while to pick them off and you can never quite get rid of the whole taste of them, but you can try. I guess I’ll start trying, is what I’m saying.
I hate tomatoes and I’ve always had to put up with people throwing sundried tomatoes on my pizza, which is honestly quite rude. Can’t I enjoy my mozzarella and basil without having to deal with your sundried tomatoes as well? I guess I know some people that are like the sundried tomatoes of people as well. They pretend not to be tomatoes, but…