For years now, I have been terrified of tomato seeds. 

Like most irrational fears, this one started in the most unassuming of places. When I was eleven, my sister and I circled an ad in our local paper with a yellow highlighter and insisted that our parents respond to it. That afternoon, we drove to the address listed and picked up our first real pets—an orphaned pair of Dalmatian puppies who, banned from coming indoors by our mother, would live in a kennel we built ourselves in the backyard. But within days, the sheer amount of time we forced them to spend outside made them vulnerable to the hoards of ticks that would cluster into the hollows of their paws and the undersides of their ears. I remember sitting in the driveway each morning, scraping the ticks out with my fingernails and smudging my grey school uniform with blood in the process. 

To this day, the constellation of beige seeds that cling to the inner skin of tomatoes never cease to crowd my mind with images of hair-thin legs gripping flesh under fur. I find myself going to extreme lengths to avoid them—picking through sliced tomatoes at delis, until I arrive at the ones untouched by the seeds. I know the way I feel is completely irrational. I know that tomato seeds are not dangerous, painful, or threatening. But, I still can’t help associating them with something that was. It’s incredibly frustrating how illogical and stubborn the human mind can sometimes be. 

But here’s the thing: ticks are everywhere. There are a million single moments and experiences that can haunt us long after they’re over. And their persistence in both our consciousness and our imagination can paint ugliness over something beautiful; can break down what would otherwise have remained forever intact.

…

A few weekends ago, a friend and I spent a hot afternoon at a food market in Camden Town. We stopped at a gourmet French stall and ordered a pair of savory crepes. The chef had sandy hair and a hearty laugh. We watched him spread a thin layer of buckwheat batter onto a hot girdle, and throw mushrooms and spinach and cheese onto it. Then, he reached into a bucket and brought out a handful of ruggedly diced tomatoes. 

They were not deseeded. 

But there was something so delicious about them. About the way they were thrown onto the cheese that would melt into them. About the way the golden crepe would fold over and envelop them. About the way this crepe was wrapped in a paper plate and handed to me. I stared into this crepe for a long time. I could see the tomato seeds peering out from underneath a wilted spinach leaf. They glistened in the cheese and the sun. I wanted to pluck them out with my thumb and forefinger. But I closed my eyes and took a big bite. 

It was the best fucking crepe I had ever had. 

...

This essay was written for Rent and Ice Cream, a project I collaborated on with designer Oliver Ballon. I wrote, he designed, and back then it felt like we could afford neither our rent nor ice cream.