After five years of growing tomatoes, I have finally grown a tomato that is damn near perfect. It happened in a year that has not been a particularly good tomato year, in which I have failed to fertilize adequately. It was a hybrid, not an heirloom. I did not baby it in the least, and Mr. Husband had to point out that it needed to be picked. It sat on the counter for two days, and then I sliced into it and realized what it was, and it became one of the best things a tomato can be: an open-faced sandwich with a light blanket of broiled cheese. It was marvelous, and it was exactly like the ones I ate all one summer for breakfast, a summer that was full of tomatoes that grandpa kept hauling over to the house.