You Say Tomato, I Say Tom…ican’tbreathe.

Do you know that feeling when someone tells you about a person who finished their nineteenth Ironman triathlon, and you’re thinking ‘that’s impressive. I feel lazy.’ and then they say ‘…nineteenth Ironman triathlon, and they did it with only one arm!‘ and you’re mind is blown and you’re not really the same again for an hour or so? My friend Paul makes me feel like that:
Paul is super smart, and capable, and nice, and immediately offered to have me over for dinner when I mentioned that I was in Portland (especially kind given that he hadn’t heard from me since we graduated from college, which was over a decade ago…)
He cooked salmon and leek paella. Over an outdoor fire. This kind of daring makes my mind melt.
He is a tremendous cook, and makes interesting and delicious food from local produce. He makes his own stock. Including lobster stock.
He likes living in Portland, and has a happy setup with a lovely wife, a cute puppy, and a really neat house. He doesn’t mind his two-hour daily commute. Because he commutes on his bicycle.
The thing that really gets me, though, is that he loves food; he’s good at it, he’s interested in new ingredients and layered flavors and enjoying every bit of it, and he’s allergic to tomatoes.

There is no justice in this world. Paul is a wonderful person, an upstanding citizen and a triathlete. He gets a Community Supported Agriculture basket every week full of in-season produce, and it’s early August. He deserves to eat tomatoes.

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