Tomatillo in Nahuatl was tomātl, ‘fat thing’.
When Aztec farmers found a fatter cultivar,
one we call tomato, they called it ji-tomatl,
‘fat thing with navel’, comparing
its snarled stem scar to the one left when
the scab of an umbilical cord drops off
leaving a symbolic link to the womb.
They have similar thoughts about corn silk,
flaxen threads sewn back into phloem,
conduit of sap between the nourishing sun
and the soil into which kernels were sown
back when they were seeds. Roasted corn
might thus be aptly scattered on this salad.
Tomatillos resemble gooseberries
but persimmons spring from the same branch.
Just look at them side-by-side on a cutting
board awaiting the advent of a keen knife.
Chances are slim that these same fruit fall
to hand all at the same time, so this dish
is speculative, which leaves us free to
entertain a serendipitous dressing, say
pico de gallo with pomegranate juice.