Tonight I ate a tomato sandwich for dinner. It was three slices of a large juicy one placed in just the right amount (too much) of mayonnaise resting in two wheat-grained slices of bread with a large glass of milk.
There is little better than that first bite of a tomato sandwich in summer. After desiring one for weeks in late-spring, summer brings that foray into simple southern cuisine quintessence. The ultimate tomato experience.
Then, over the next weeks, you eat a lot of tomatoes. A lot of them. And the sandwich itself becomes a dull commodity. Only Time makes it precious again.
The Making of Friedrich Nietzsche: Part Two
2 weeks ago