Where is Bill Clinton when you really need him?
Imagine my ordeal: every day forced to eat a plate (usually two plates) of vine-ripened garden tomatoes. Sweet and juicy, at the very peak of their readiness. O, woe! How long must I endure this?
(These small ones have been copiously drizzled with balsamic vinegar, sprinkled with grated parmesan cheese, and then attacked with cracked pepper. Just awful.)