The Picnic Table Café

Don’t you remember when a tiny tomato held endless possibilities? 

What is it?  An apple (“Ap-m” as Riley would say)?

A jelly donut with seeds?

A great big red eyeball that popped out of someone’s head?

I am exposed to life’s riveting questions when I sit with my sons at the Picnic Table Café. 

That’s not sarcasm.

What is a tomato?

How did God design so many different things with seeds on the inside and seeds on the outside?  How come I like tomatoes, but the next person thinks they’re nasty?  Why didn’t I ever notice how easy it is to squish one in my fist as the seeds come flying out?

Why does Riley think I want to hold the tomato when he’s done squashing it?

May curiosity always be with me, like a little leaky tomato in my pocket.  

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6 thoughts on “The Picnic Table Café

  1. This only has to do with Riley thinking a tomato is an apple, but you know what the Russian word for apple is? Ya-bluh-kuh. My Brynny’s best friend is a Russian-american toddler and she doesn’t mind mixing English and Russian up. “Are you a little yablaka tree?” I ask her in her apple raincoat. She knows exactly what I mean and nods yes. I love toddlers, and apples, and tomatoes.

    • I LOVE Russian! I got to take some in college and I wish I could have continued. I’ll be saying ya-bluh-kuh for the rest of the day. We’re having chicken cacciatore tonight, and if it were made Riley’s way, it would be full of ya-bluh-kuhs.

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