This summer will go down in the books for a number of reasons. First, there’s no way to beat around the bush: this was the summer of the oh-shit-i’m-turning-30 freak out. I lost my mind for a minute getting all angsty about how I wasn’t doing enough with my short, precious life. Second, it was the summer I decided that I needed to move to Oakland. This sentiment was born on an airplane in a sleep-deprived state. It was a MUST and I spent the entire summer freaking out about how I would afford to live in Oakland. The short answer? I can’t. Not right now.
Third, and most importantly, this was the summer of the tomato sandwich. I came across this innocuous post on Cup of Jo and it ignited a deep hunger for tomato sandwiches that endured for three strong months. Pretty much every Saturday morning, I made my way to the farmer’s market and swooped up a loaf of homemade bread and some ridiculously expensive heirloom tomatoes. I rushed home, popped the bread in the toaster, sliced and generously salted those tomatoes, slapped the mayonnaise on the toast while it was still hot, and greedily ate up the sandwich still standing at the counter.
It was a glorious few months.
Fare thee well, tomato sandwich. I know I’m supposed to be moving on to all things pumpkin, but I’m still stuck on you. I can’t wait until next July when we can reignite our tryst.