Paul and I tend to be grazers in the summer.

The thought of a hot meal after a hot day isn’t very appealing. So we tend to have what is called across the pond, a “Ploughman’s.”

Available at most pubs, patrons are served a chunk of crusty bread, a wedge of cheese, a side of chutney, perhaps pickled onion and a sprig of grapes — you get the picture. A pint of fresh cask ale washes it down as well.

In my Carolinian version, I had assembled on the cutting board most of those foodstuffs mentioned above, along with a dab of peach chutney, cups of red roasted pepper hummus, stuffed grape leaves and olives. The piece de resistance was a gorgeous, ripe tomato the size of a baseball. 

I hesitated before I sliced it.

“Hey!” hollered a local gent that for some reason I only run into at the parking lot of the dollar store. “You wanna ‘mater?”

“Heck, yeah, I’ll take a ‘mater,” I grinned. “Kinda early for them, though, ain’t it?”

His silvered head, mostly obscured by his cap, ducked into the cab of his truck to retrieve the thing.

“This is the last ‘mater from my ‘mater man in Georgia,” he proclaimed. “He used to sell them up the road by Tooter Town.”

(Yes, it exists, with a rusted sign near the road that alerts: “You Are Now Leaving Tooter Town!” And out of sheer obligation, Paul and I always tap the horn in reply when passing.)

“That’s nice,” I said, admiring the ripened orb in his hand.

“But he died last week.”

“Oh, bless his heart!” I replied, actually using the phrase as intended.

“I know. It was real sudden.”

“So no more ‘maters?”

“Well,” he paused, and lifted his cap with one hand and scratched his head with the other before continuing. “His wife says she’s gonna try to get the farm up and running and keep the business going.”

“Oh, good for her!”

“‘Cept she was sitting on her porch swing last week and one of the chains broke and she busted her legs!”

“Oh, no!” I cried, stricken. “That’s really too much for one person to bear!” 

“I know, bless her heart!”

“Bless her heart.”

Having such a history attached to it, simply slicing the ‘mater up and eating it mindlessly as we watched the evening news seemed almost a violation. There happened to be just a scrape of Duke’s mayonnaise left in the jar in the fridge, and after a sprinkle of salt, I popped a wedge into my mouth. Heaven.

I didn’t know him, but I think that’s just the way the ‘mater man would have wanted it.