OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor will I ever own, the lullaby shown here, as it is used for entertainment purposes only. I just thought it would be nice to have a little Italian lullaby for the magic tomato-baby, okay?

When Romano got up the next morning, he knew something was, for a lack of a better term...off. He'd woken up early, which was awful. He'd gotten halfway dressed for the day before realizing that he'd put his shirt on inside out. His morning coffee had tasted strange, and the overly bitter taste had reminded him, oddly enough, of the bittersweet flavor of the homemade tomato paste he would make each year from the harvests from his "Mataya" tomato plant. I need to go pick more tomatoes from there anyway, Mataya looks like she'll collapse under all that fruit.

Upon thinking this, Romano, to his dismay, realized that he needed clothes that wouldn't stain from the juices of any dropped or rotten tomatoes. Sighing, he knew he'd have to find his "Tomato-garden" outfit. This outfit was a "uniform" of sorts that he used for when caring for his tomatoes, as well as for when he cleaned his house. He never wore it outside his property; he knew that if anyone found out that he wore anything like it, he'd be the laughingstock of Europe. And what was worse was the fact that he actually, sort of...liked to wear it. The clothes reminded him of a more peaceful time in his life, back when all he'd needed to worry about was cleaning Spain's house before he got home. The stupid clothes were damn comfortable, too.

God forbid anyone find out that I still sort of like to wear this crap. If that Tomato Bastard ever finds out, I'll never hear the end of it! He'll probably think it's "cute" or something...

Heaving a sigh, he headed to the supply closet off to the side of the kitchen, opening up the narrow chamber and kneeling down, pulling off a mound of folded sheets and pillowcases to find what he was looking for: a small, rectangular wooden chest with a curved lid, the only thing he'd taken with him when he'd moved out of Spain's care. The chest was a container for items he'd acquired during his days as an "underling", filled to the brim with old photos (Spain had been quite enthusiastic about picture-taking when cameras became available for home use), an old feather duster (which was in rather good condition, given that Romano hadn't often used it), a tall, narrow glass bottle full of sand from all the places Spain had colonized (he'd brought it back one day as a present, telling Romano that the beach had wanted to come visit him), a wad of old headscarves and handkerchiefs that he'd worn when he cleaned, a small box containing an Old World sewing kit, and a long bolt of faded pink cloth, for the times when he'd had to repair his dresses.

Hidden underneath all these things was a small brown bag, which housed Romano's greatest embarrassment: a larger-size replica of his old "underling" dress, apron, and headscarf uniform combo, which he'd sewn himself when he'd first moved here. Over the years, he'd altered the dress for long hours of use, adding several pockets to the front of the apron to keep gardening tools, strings to part of the headscarf to tie it to his head to make sure the wind didn't blow it away, and several extra pockets to the sides of the pink dress for keeping snack food.

Changing into the uniform, Romano tied the strings of his apron securely in the back and returned to the kitchen, filling the dress pockets with several ripe tomatoes he washed and put into a napkin. He'd be out in the garden for a while, so snacks were a must, as he knew he was too lazy to go back into the kitchen to get himself lunch. Slipping on his shoes and grabbing his gardening basket by the kitchen door, he headed out.

When he got to the tomato garden, Romano began to understand why he'd felt as if things were different when he'd woken up this morning. Something was going in in his beloved tomato garden. There was a bizarre glow coming from the center, and he had a terrible feeling his stupid Nonno was behind it.

His beloved "Mataya" was glowing a deep golden color, so heavy with the most mouthwatering, juicy-looking, plump "San Marzano" tomatoes that he'd ever seen. Entranced, he walked over to the tomato plant, golden-brown eyes wide with surprise, reaching out a slightly shaky hand to touch the tomatoes, trying to see if they were real. Pale fingers brushed over smooth, sun-warmed red skin, until he suddenly felt his fingertips brush something soft and warm, slightly grainy, and squishy. Something that moved, something that was breathing, even snoring!

Romano let out a shriek (a very manly one, thank you very much) of surprise, and stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock, before he scrambled to pull out the hedge clipper he used to clip tomato vines. His hands shook nervously; what the hell was in his tomato plant? What the heck was taking a goddamn nap in his tomato garden?

...Well, whatever it was, it didn't seem like it was causing any trouble. The rest of the tomato garden seemed untouched, and "Mataya" was positively radiant, in the peak of health. Maybe it was a stray cat or something from the town a few miles away? Cats liked to nap in the sun, and his tomato garden certainly got plenty of that. And he'd spent more than enough hours napping among his tomato plants on a hot summer's day to understand that naps in his garden were quite pleasant.

Well, if it is a cat, it's got to go. I'm not having any animals in here, they'll pee all over my tomato plants and ruin the soil. Guess I've got to come at it slowly, though. If I freak it out, the damn thing will probably try to claw my face off.

Holding the hedge clippers out in front of him, he slowly approached the tomato plant. Upon coming close enough to peer into the vines and see his target, he almost dropped his hedge clippers in shock.

Well, whatever the hell this thing is, it's definitely not a tomato.

Nestled in between two larger tomatoes was a tiny, roundish blob, a pale greyish-white color, tinged with a slight toasted brown. Where there was supposed to be a tomato stem attaching the it to the vine, there was a small patch of messy, slightly curly dark brown leaves, resembling hair. The front of the "tomato" had two large indents resembling, oddly enough, closed eyes, as if the bizarre thing was asleep, and under the "eyes" was a small slit that looked like a mouth. Romano held his fingers in front of the "mouth", and found to his shock that he felt warm puffs of air, as if the thing was breathing.

Holy shit, this thing's alive!

Cautiously, he pressed a single finger to the greyish-white "skin". His finger rose up and down with each tiny breath. Craning his head closer, he placed the hedge clippers back into his pockets and cupped his hands around his ears to listen in. Yep, it's breathing, all right. But what is it?

"Enjoying yourself, Romano?"

Romano fell over in shock, letting out another yell of surprise as he landed on his back in the dirt. Looking upwards, he saw Rome had appeared by "Mataya", and was looking into the tomato vines at the strange "tomato" inside.

"Dammit, Nonno, don't do that! Give me some kind of damn warning before you show up like this! And why the hell are you still in that stupid costume?"

Rome grinned at him. "Can't a grandfather visit his grandson? Besides, I came to check on how you were doing with your little gift, although it seems like it's not quite mature enough yet. And here I thought you'd have it fully-grown when you got it..."

Romano stared at him in confusion and rising anger. "You mean this weird thing in my tomato plant has to get bigger? Why? And what the hell is it, anyway?"

His grandfather gave him a disappointed look. "It's your wish, of course! But it looks like you'll have to grow it to full size yourself. Apparently your feelings haven't been fully realized yet, so it's not fully grown..."

Seeing his grandson's continued look of bewilderment, Rome smiled and patted Romano on the head, saying, "Don't worry, I have complete faith in you! Just make sure to give the little guy lots of love and attention, and you two will get along wonderfully!"

Little guy...? That thing in my tomato plant is some kind of pet or something?

Before he could even ask what Rome had meant, the old Empire had suddenly vanished again. Romano sighed. Looks like I'm stuck with this thing.

Walking over to the tomato plant, he studied the tiny blob, still "sleeping". Well, I guess it's sort of...cute. Meh, alright. I'll try taking care of it. At least it's still sort of a tomato. And I guess it would be nice to have some kind of company out here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SEVERAL DAYS LATER~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Romano continued with the upkeep of his property, visiting each of his fields every day to pick fruit and vegetables, before watering and tending the plants and storing his harvest for later. Canning and preserving was a must, leaving the cellar under his house packed with jars of food to keep or sell later on in the markets in Sicily's towns. By the end of each day, his fingers were blistered and his hands cramping up, but it was with pride that he looked at his cellar, stocked to the rafters with crates of preserved food he'd grown and canned himself.

The tomato garden had become even more important to him. Every day he'd take time to go out to "Mataya" and tend the vines, carefully watering and tilling the dark soil, and occasionally talking or singing to the plant itself, having heard from the old women on Sicily that speaking to the plant would help it grow. One old woman at the fish and vegetable marketplace had even taught him the words to an old farmer's lullaby that her mother had sung to her as a bedtime song, called "Stella, Stellina", the "Star, Little Star" lullaby:

La notte si avvicina,
La fiamma traballa,
La mucca é nella stalla.
La pecora e l'agnello,
La vacca col vitello,
La chioccia coi pulcini,
La gatta coi gattini;
E tutti fan la nanna
Nel cuore della mamma!

It was only the fact that Romano lived in such solitude that gave his considerable pride leave to let him sing to the "tomato" every evening before he went to bed. The "tomato" seemed to like it, though, growing steadily larger every day. Romano couldn't help but feel a bit proud, knowing that the "tomato" was thriving because of him. As time went on, a thought occurred to him: despite having named every single tomato plant in his garden, he hadn't yet named the "tomato". It was part of his garden, so it needed a name too, right?

Sitting in the dirt by "Mataya", he pondered names. Armando? No, too military-like. Albirto? No, too holy-sounding. Adamo? Maybe. No wait...Amato.

Amato, the Italian name for "beloved". Well, I certainly love tomatoes. And this thing is sort of a tomato...and it seems to like me...Amato it is.

Unbeknownst to Romano, in a tree several hundred feet away was Rome, grinning happily. He's going to make such a good mama.