What are “nonnies” you may ask? Some secret subterranean race? A magical crystal that imbues children with the power of super heroes? Or just another word the spell check gets upset about?
In Italian, the word for grandparents is “nonni”. But that is not what I am talking about here.
“Nonnies” are cherry tomatoes. Why? I’m not sure. For whatever reason when I was a child, I started calling cherry tomatoes “nonnies”. I don’t remember if I even ate them, but I do remember loving them.
At least, that is, I loved them until that horrible, fateful day. It would change my relationships with cherry tomatoes forever. And not only was I betrayed by my beloved nonnies that I loved so dearly. I was also betrayed by my older brother, who I am sure I at least thought I kind of liked at the time, but he was probably not on the same level as the nonnies. I don’t remember for sure. I was only three or four years old at the time for goodness sakes.
Anyway, back to the story of that life-altering day…
It caught me completely off guard. There was, holding the nonnie in my hand. I was enthralled by its glorious, red flesh. I had to see it more closely and held it up closer to my eye. It looked so juicy. I had to squeeze it just a little bit so that could sense all of its nonnie splendor.
And that’s when I squeezed a little too hard and the juice from inside the nonnie sprayed out.
“GWAHAAYYHHRAA!!!!!!!” I cried. The acid from the tomato juice only added to the sting of betrayal.
How does my older brother fit into this? Did he booby trap the nonnie? Or did he somehow encourage me hold it a little closer to my eye or squeeze a little too hard? No. When you are four it takes much less to feel betrayed.
He laughed at me. A lot.
In hindsight, it was kind of funny. But I still don’t like cherry tomatoes. The little red jerks.