The title's just a tall claim. I'm no poet, though this berry* made me wish I was. But since I can't rhyme to save my rind, I will stick to bald facts rather than even attempt blank verse.
It was as red as a pomegranate. Or a sunset. Rosy enough to send Snow White's apple into a sulk.
It was substantial enough to make sandwiches for two. Over four lunchtimes.
It was fruity. It was juicy. It was fragrant. It was meaty.
Seductively flounced though it was, looking all ready for salsa class, this was definitely no tart tomato. (If you made chutney of this berry, it would be a jam, certainly.)
It sashayed over from Switzerland in September, and found the perfect partner in an Appenzeller. But it was assertive, and liked to lead. (Good thing the cheese was meltingly pliant and the bread too well-bred to intrude. And if the mustard liked to spice things up, at least it was a good gossip and that's always welcome.)
Now that I'm done tom-toming the virtues of that tomato, I'm off to savour the last slice.
*A tomato IS a berry, botanically speaking.
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