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Golden Boy | The Sewanee Review

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Golden Boy was fat and streaky, with rich orange veins running down his red sides. His stem gave off the faint, bitter smell of sun-cooked dirt. He had no wormholes, no soft spots, not one pucker or bruise. The chipmunks hadn’t touched him. He was misshapen, but most heirlooms are. “Nice tomato,” I said. “Nice?” Dad scooped Golden Boy from the bowl, cradling him to his chest. My dad’s knuckles were swollen with arthritis. When I last saw him, eighteen months ago, his joints had recently started aching. Now his whole body seemed stooped. “Naomi thinks you’re nice,” he told the tomato. “Not perfect. Not blue-ribbon quality. Nice.” “Blue ribbon?” I asked, dropping my backpack on the spotless, sandless kitchen floor. The marble countertop gleamed. Copper pots sparkled over the range. I smelled bleach and lemons, and I wondered who did the cleaning. Surely my father hadn’t learned, at sixty-eight, to dust and scrub. He lifted his chin. “What’s wrong with a blue ribbon?” “Nothing.” I kept my

The tomato sat in a bowl of its own on the counter. “Look at him,” my dad crowed. “Golden Boy.” Golden Boy was fat and streaky, with rich orange veins running down his red sides. His stem gave off the faint, bitter smell of sun-cooked dirt. He had no wormholes, no soft spots, not one pucker or bruise. The chipmunks hadn’t touched him. He was misshapen, but most heirlooms are. “Nice tomato,” I said. “Nice?” Dad scooped Golden Boy from the bowl, cradling him to his chest. My dad’s knuckles were swollen with arthritis. When I last saw him, eighteen months ago, his joints had recently started achi

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