Last week, E and I had dinner with his parents and sister at this Italian place. One of the specials was a burrata rocket salad with these little red tomatoes which go by names like cherry tomatoes, or worse, honey tomatoes which is very often a misnomer cos they’re rarely sweet enough to be associated with the nectar of bees. 

So on that particular Sunday, I took my chances with the little red tomatoes and they were, for a change, delightfully honeyed on my tongue.  Afterwards, we decided to walk off dinner by heading to the Jason’s nearby to roam the aisles. 

We happened to pass by the refrigerated fresh vegetables section, and I asked E’s dad if he had any tips on how to pick sweet tomatoes. He didn’t. But he did ask a duty manager who swore that Perino grape tomatoes were the sweetest. They weren’t, I’ve tried them. 

Fast forward to today, E and I headed over to his parents’ for dinner, where I found a bowl-ful of red tomatoes. They weren’t particularly sweet, but I was, and remain, moved by the gesture. His mommy mentioned, post-dinner, whilst we were watching telly that his dad had asked the shop assistant to recommend him the sweetest tomatoes they had available. 

Maybe I’m a sentimental simpleton but little thoughts and gestures like these say far more than the grand ones. And while I’m acutely cognizant that no one and no relationship is perfect, I am very grateful to E, and his family, for always trying to make me feel like I’m home. I could not ask for more than this. 

I’m content.