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Somebody today gave me some free tomatoes. With what the cost of your
average tomato here in the U.S. is these days, I figure that tomorrow
that same person will stop by and give me a couple bars of gold, too.

They're garden tomatoes from some unknown garden. Normally I wouldn't
worry about something like that. But these days you just don't know who
has been picking tomatoes out there in those gardens. It used to be that
you could count on the tomatoes being picked by skillful illegal Mexicans
who treated your vegetables with love and care. But these days, what with
all the hub-bub about illegals, getting Mexicans into the gardens is getting
more and more difficult.

Heaven only knows what kind of rif-raf picked my tomatoes. Probably
recent college graduates from Cal-Tech, I bet.

I just wish we could get tomatoes grown the old-fashioned way — in
secret underground government laboratories. Now THOSE were tomatoes.
Yes, I remember with great fondness my younger days living in Phoenix,
when I would go out early morning each Wednesday and wait for the
vegetable truck to come down the street, with friendly physicists in
their white lab coats jumping off the back of the truck to ask me, in
that funny little academic accent they always had — "Would you care for
a pound of our delicious, hydroponic-fresh, genetically modified tomatoes?"
And I would reply, "You bet. A pound for me, and a pound for my landlady."

In any case, I'm eating the tomatoes my neighbor gave me later tonight
with some grated cheese and a little bit of salad dressing on top.

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