A little story about tomatoes
Have you ever been wandering through a Friday farmers market in the Northern Beaches with a strong long-black-dash in one hand and your dog in a bag slung over your shoulder (not for fashion purposes but because dogs weren't allowed and you didn't know that and she's small anyway, so you thought you'd sneak her in) and you happen upon the Tomato Guy. Every market has one, and if you're lucky he's Italian. You fall madly, instantly in love with his tomatoes. No, not those. Don't be disgusting. I mean real, honest-to-god, fugly, yo nanna's nanna ate these, farmer's market tomatoes. So you stack up on them - or, as it happens, you direct the Tomato Guy's grandson behind the table to fill a bag of them, which he does. And then asks you for $25. You nearly choke on your coffee, but you're so embarrassed - !SUPPORT LOCAL PRODUCE! - that you accept the cost and borrow money from your sister in law (because it's somehow less embarrassing than declining the tomatoes) and pay it and run. And the farmer's market is over for you, because you're broke and your dinner must now consist exclusively of tomatoes. So you go, removing your dog from her bag and sliding the tomatoes in instead, gently guiding them home to wash and slice and drizzle and fucking hell you better enjoy every healthy, flavoursome cent from every single red, green, orange, yellow, purple, black or stripey tomato. No pressure. They're heirloom.