scammed.

I'd like to say that Martha made me do it. And she did. Kind of. Or at least one of the magazines in her empire did.

The recipe calls for heirloom tomatoes. And there they were. All orange, and imperfect. And the word heirloom kind of draws you in. Doesn't it?

Assuming they couldn't be much more than all the other tomatoes in the aisle, I picked a large one. Thinking that I could save money by only getting one and throwing regular, old, reddies in with the beaut.

So I didn't pay attention at checkout, because the hoodlums were climbing on top of the car grocery cart, throwing flip flops at customers, screaming, and pulling at anything they could get their hands on.

And now. As I look at the receipt. Martha can be blamed. For the college educations, retirement, and fortunes that fade from our future.