Over the weekend, I experienced a sacred tomato moment. As I cut one into pieces, I was overcome with memories of my grandma, Verona. A plate of tomatoes often sat on her kitchen table in the late summer, a jar of sugar nearby to sprinkle on top. Returning to the reality of my own kitchen, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. They were the kind of happy, sad tears I think of as a special sort of holy water. It's funny. I teach and...