Frank does not like fried tomatoes.

I really can't blame him. They really aren't terribly tasty. And they look so forlorn and soggy when presented next to his eggs and toast. I never served him tomatoes when he was still allowed his bacon or sausage, because the meat gave enough of a color contrast to where one had a pleasing ensemble when one viewed the completed plate. But just eggs and toast? The yellow of the margerine on the toast is just like the yellow yolk of a fried egg, and that's just two eyeballs staring at you every morning. No one really needs to look at that first thing in the morning when they barely have their eyeballs open to have their breakfast staring right back at you!

Frank says the tomato would end up as a nose. But I am very careful to set it to one side, like I used to do with the meat. The only one who could see it as a face that way would be that weirdo artist guy who let his grandchildren dictate the physiology. I really don't believe that artist could be permitted to make money these days- we have stricter child labor laws now, or so I do hope!

Yet still, these arguments do not weigh well with Frank. He will not eat his tomato. He is often vociferous on the subject on why are we wasting money on the things.

So I have to lie and say I like them. And I kindly retreive it off his plate once he's eaten half the eyes staring at him. It does not go with my fruity cereal, and often gives me heartburn. But I think it's worth it. We argue over the tomato in the morning, instead of worse topics. It has become safe and comfortable to argue about the damn fried tomato.
  ¶ 9:21 PM