Tomatoes. The smell of the plants enveloped her, stung her nose and made
her want to sneeze. Her back ached from leaning over the vines, and her
arms were stained with the chartruese of the leaves. She had rubbed a
handful of them over her skin in a futile effort to deter the mosquitoes.
Still the small circular welts proliferated, and she could no longer stop
slapping at the insects. She lifted the basket from between the rows, and
made her way to the edge of the field.
A late rain had ruined the crop of plum tomatoes, made them swell and
split their skins along the length of the ruby fruits. The thick pink
flesh inside glistened, and the few seeds would slide out at the
slightest pressure. They were useless for whole packing. They could
only be used for sauces, and that is why Rosa was here, picking the
slippery shapes from the vines in the early evening. The owner of the
field would be plowing it under tomorrow. She could not bear to see the
crop go to such waste. So she had brought baskets, filled them one by one
and placed them in her car. They leaked juices, and the smell of tomatoes
and rain filled her head as she drove slowly home, mindful of the turns.
She itched all over.
Once at her house, she began the unpleasant task of lifting the bushel
baskets out of the trunk, out of the backseat. She’d collected 4 bushels.
The screen door opened, and Yolanda came out, lifted a basket and took it
inside. Rosa smiled, followed behind.
“Chica, ay, Dios mio! Look at your arms! The mosquitoes love to eat you,
don’t they?” She kissed the woman quickly. “Almost as much as I do!”
Yolanda giggled, closed the door behind her. Rosa smiled at her novia’s
comments. Yolanda was always the one to do the repining for her. Rosa
shrugged off most discomforts without verbal complaint. Yolanda was the
one to make the sad noises and cry out for her lover’s sake.
Rosa placed the baskets of tomatoes on the kitchen table. Yolanda began
filling the large pots with water, setting them on the stove to boil for
the blanching process. Rosa pulled the sterile jars from the dishwasher,
began lining them up on the counter.
Each woman had their own metier. Rosa was queen of clean–the lids never
bulged when she did the packing. Yolanda could slip the skin from the
tomatoes in one swift motion. “Dip it in the boiling water, count to
three, and then into the ice water, count to three, lift and slip” she had
instructed Rosa. The tomatoes refused to cooperate, simply disolving into
a slippery mess in her hands when she tried to remove the skin. So she
left it to Yolanda.
They worked in silence through the first three bushels. The smell of
tomatoes filled the room, and the smell of clean sweat from the two women.
Rosa’s arms ached with the welts, itching and tormenting her. She also
had one on her nipple, and it swelled painfully beneath her shirt.
Finally, the itching reached a pitch that could no longer be ignored. With
a a grunt of irritation, Rosa pulled her shirt from her body in one swift
motion, exposing the small breasts and the dark nipples. Yolanda whistled
her appreciation.
“Chica, get the ammonia. Help me stop this itching!”
“Rosa, we can’t! The smell will get into the jars, ruin the tomatoes!”
“Yo-yo, I can’t work like this. What else do you have? What good is
having a curendera for a novia if you can’t help me?”
Yolanda looked at her lover’s breasts. Her right nipple was swollen
badly, the welt obvious. A rush of desire washed over her. She
remembered the the sight of that nipple caught in a loop of string,
swollen and dark. She took a step to her lover and lowered her face to
the nipple, drew it into her mouth and tugged hard on it. Rosa gasped in
surprise.
“Yolanda! Ay, chica…” Her hands, covered in tomato pulp, moved of
their own volition to enbrace the head at her breast. The combination of
the tugging and licking and the itch and sting of the bite hit her hard,
made her wet almost instantly. She felt her knees buckle. She sank to the
floor, drawing Yolanda with her.
As they fell, they nudged the final basket of split tomatoes onto the
floor and over their bodies. The shock of it interupted their play, and
they sat up, laughing at the mess. Yolanda’s back was covered in the
slippery pulp of the seeds and meat. Brilliant red lumps splattered in
sunburst patterns on the tile floor. As they struggled to sit upright,
Rosa noticed something. Her arms, covered with the stuff, no longer
itched. Only her nipple ached.
“Yo-yo! The tomatoes have stopped the itching! Put some on my breast!”
Yolanda looked at her lover’s face. She could see the tension there, the
ache. A glance at the other nipple told her what she supected.
Rosa was getting aroused by the pain and itch.
Softly she looked at her lover again, and softly she said “No, mija. We
will finish the canning, and then I will put the pain to good use. ”
Rosa nodded slowly.
There is a tradition that the emotional state of the cook is infused in
the meal. The remaining jars of tomatoes packed that hot night were set
aside in a special place, away from the rest of the others. In later
years, those jars were opened on special occasions, and eating them would
make Rosa’s nipples ache with the pain of that mosquito bite.