We huddled in the shadow of the chicken coop at the edge of the garden, the coast was clear. She held the ripe, red tomato in her hand and presented it for the two of us to see. Her white-blonde hair wafted slightly in the mid-morning breeze. She was a head taller than I and two heads taller than our younger brother. She was more experienced and impatient so we tip-toed when she told us to, and hid when she said to do so, and then we watched with wide eyes as she had done the unthinkable. Witnessing the crime was worthy of punishment in itself, but this naughtiness couldn't be helped. We were so curious and, though we had no idea what it might taste like, the mere sight of the thing made us hungry.

"What is it?" he asked, poking the tight skin with the tip of his finger.

She pulled the treasured fruit back to her breast defensively and scowled at the two of us, as if we'd both broken some unspoken rule between thieves. I looked from her to him, hoping to somehow direct the blame to its rightful owner.

"You don't poke it!" She hissed the words like a snake slithering across the cool ground, careful not to raise her voice lest we be caught red handed.

Her glare was menacing but she couldn't hide her excitement over the prospect of showing us something new. Her features softened and she thrust it out for me to hold.

"Be careful," she warned.

I stood motionless, completely dumbfounded by the prospect that she would entrust me with the treasure she had snuck out of the garden, and afraid that each breath might somehow cause me to drop my sacred charge. It was like an over-filled water balloon and as I stared at the taut red skin, I wondered if it might pop in my hands. My musings, however, were interrupted when I noticed why she'd given it to me. Hidden beneath her shirt, her front pants pocket was bulging and she was struggling to retrieve an object she'd secreted away sometime before our mission had begun.

Our brother gasped as he recognized the object still shielded from my view by the angle in which she was standing. He didn't struggle as I edged him aside to see what it was. The domed silver top, adorned with tiny holes, seemed so familiar but it wasn't until she'd weaseled the white-filled glass bottom that recognition struck. I let out my own gasp and nearly dropped the tomato in the process.

"Be careful!" She hissed again, and grabbed it from me.

I whispered the words, "Mom's going to kill you!" But she was already focused on holding the tomato in one hand and the salt shaker in the other.

Tiny grains of salt bounced off the tight skin and, like any older sibling sending the lambs to slaughter, she offered the first bite to the smallest, and least likely to incur the full wrath of our parents. Unknowing that by sinking his teeth into the sun-warmed flesh he was sealing his fate as a possible scapegoat, he bit down. Juice squirted down his chin and onto his shirt.

"Mmmm." He nodded in approval and looked at me expectantly as she thrust the tomato in my direction and, as if in some sacred, ritualistic rite of passage, dashed another burst of salt onto the exposed red flesh.

It was in that first stolen bite of sun-ripened tomato that I found my love for gardening.

Learn more about this author, Brady Frost.
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