Tomeditation
Or, Slice
“Do you want to do the lettuce, or the tomato?” he asks me. We’re prepping the toppings for the smashburgers that are currently burgering in the air fryer.
“I’ll take the tomato,” I reply.
I grab the wooden cutting board from beside the Nespresso machine and lay it on the countertop. He tosses me the tomato. “Already washed,” he says.
I choose my knife—the Misen one that my daddy gave me. I like the blue handle. I use the tip to cut out the stemmy center at the top of the tomato.
Don’t cut yourself don’t let the knife slip wouldn’t that be terrible right before Christmas?
Pop! Out comes the center. I set the tomato on its side and get to work.
Slice.
“You’ve been cooking more,” he says.
“Oh! Did you read my Substack?” I ask, hopeful.
“No. I got scared.”
He never reads my Substack. I told him what this one was about, and he assumes it’s going to be a hit piece? What the hell? Why are people so—
Slice.
—scared to read what I’ve written when they know it includes them? Oh God, I’m not one of those writers, am I?
Slice.
Whatever, it’s not like he ever reads it anyway, no matter what it’s about. I shall not be silenced. I am a truth teller! I am an openhearted artist! Ugh I have three Instagram accounts now. Personal, writer, now artist. Four if you count the one about the cats that I can’t get into.
Slice.
Six if you count the two I have on hold in case my writing business ever needs a dedicated page. Should the artist one be in my married name or my birth name? Ugh I didn’t mean for things to get so damn complicated. I never should’ve changed my name to begin with. Fucking men.
Slice.
“It’s been nice,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“You. Cooking more. I appreciate it.”
Oh yeah. Cooking.
“Yeah, I’ve been working on it,” I say.
Which you would know if you read my goddamn Substack.
Slice.
“This knife is really sharp,” I say. “Did you sharpen it recently?”
Why am I being so nice to him when he hasn’t read my Substack? Am I too forgiving? Should I say something? Or would it be petty to hold that against him? Or does none of this really matter because nothing really matters because we’re just little specks of dust hurtling through endless space on a slightly larger piece of dust? I’m not going to say anything. I don’t want to get into a whole thing and have the burgers get cold.
“Not really … well … maybe I sharpened it right before we moved?” he offers.
“Well, I like it. Slices right through the tomato.”
I gently pinch the nubby end of the tomato from above with my left hand, knife in between. I slice the last slice. I eat the tiny tomato butt. Because no one wants a butt on their burger.
The air fryer goes off. It’s reduced the smashburgers to little pucks. Extra mayo it is, then.
✨ If you’re here, reading this footnote, I’m ever so grateful. ✨
A free subscription means the world. Truly. Just knowing you’re out there, choosing to read my words, is enough to make me hummingbird-dance across my living room (Bird is used to it).
A paid subscription? That’s next-level kindness. I’ll be so honored I might cry a little and definitely send you something sparkly in the mail if you want. Just say the word. (Seriously—glitter is standing by.)
Not a fan of subscriptions? That’s okay too! You can always buy Bird a treat instead. She accepts tips in the form of snacks and chin scritchies, and I’ll use your support to fuel more writing with a side of crunchies.
Or help for free by tapping the magic buttons! A like, a comment, or a restack tells the Substack algorithm nerd-gods that this little piece deserves some daylight. Every click helps me find more kindred spirits.
Hmmm, did I once again guilt my husband into tapping the heart button for a bunch of my recent posts last night? Maybe. Am I tired of feeling like I need to remind him about this constantly? Hell yes.