You say tomato, I say

Ta Mah Tah.

Or not.

Here, depending on how far up the mountains you reside, we say "tamata", or if you are really country, "damater" or just plain, "mater".

Whatever you call it, man alive, it's one good food.

I say this because, as ya'll know, summer is ending and that means the end of the fresh picked, still warm from the sun, tomato.

Makes me shed a tear.

You know, folks originally thought the tomato was poison. Some brave soul decided to eat it anyway.

I picture it thusly: Immediately preceding the first bite of the tomato, a loud, braggadocio voice in mountain man accent hollers: "Hey ya'll, watchis!"

And, I believe, after the crowd took one look at the rapturous countenance that appeared on his unshaven face, they galloped to the nearest loaf bread and Blue Plate and commenced to make the first mater sammiches.

And probably, (though I have no proof) they passed by a cow in the pasture and someone thought what's good for the calf is good with a mater sammich and braved themselves to pour a tall glass of milk to go with their new delicacy.

Man, I love history.