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Tomato Route "Politics is the art of looking for
trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly,
and applying the wrong remedy." "What is this?" Sharon asked as we pedalled along a tranquil country road. "The Tomato Route?" For the past few kilometres, hundreds of smushed tomatoes littered the gravel shoulder. I laughed and stopped to pick up a couple of non-smooshed beauties the size of softballs. "Maybe this is a political parade route?" I bent again, and picked up another cherry-red beaut. Sharon sniffed the air. "What's that smell?" she asked, her pert nose wrinkling. "Wasn't me," I responded reflexively. Then I caught a whiff, too. "Hamburgers or something," I said absently, as another crimson beauty caught my eye. "No," Sharon said. "It smells like ketchup." Huh? I scrinched my eyes and looked at her as if she was losing her French fries. We hit the road, skirting slippery red spots. In a couple of kilometres, we came upon a giant multi-storey Heinz ketchup factory. Who knew? "I guess it's true," I said. "Women have a better sense of smell than men." (Which explains a lot.) I was still calculating how many litres of ketchup that factory held when we happened across a trail of carrots. "Let me guess," I joshed. "There's a V8 juice facility just down the road." I stopped and tossed a few of the orange vegetables into my pannier. Sharon smiled. "If this keeps up,"
she said, "we'll soon have enough to make a salad!" |
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