It was always considered mine. It had even been given a name — the ugly one. By the time it had grown barely rounder than a fingernail it was resolutely off course, flourishing in folds and tangled on itself. As the season roused into abundance other misshapen exceptions appeared, though none equalled the resplendent appearance of my impudent tomato. When the glut dwindled to the last middling and depleted few we returned grudgingly to supermarket tomatoes. The curiously uniform store tomatoes, without the slightest wayward step in its controlled growth, had nothing on the ugly one.