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Once upon a time, on the property of a hunting and fishing club nestled in the woods of the Pocono Mountains, a group of adults ventured out into this land to engage in an epic battle. They were divided into two armies. One troop donned the color Red and the other Black. They crawled, trekked, and marched through the acres of this property to meet in ultimate combat. Their weapon? Tomatoes.

This tradition has continued for over 75 years.

I married into this.

I kid you not.

This was the first year since I started dating James that I have not fought in the Labor Day Tomato War at his family’s Hunting and Fishing Club. That’s right, I have five years of Red Army battle under my belt. I’m what some might call a tomato-throwing machine. Okay, actually, the first three years I hid in the bushes and wept quietly into their leafy embrace. My fourth year, I finally “killed” someone with my madd tomato throwing skillz (a relatively prominent fighter for the Black Army, I might add) and then last year, my fifth war, exactly six days prior to my wedding day, because Karma’s a bitch, I was beaned IN THE FACE with a less than ripe tomato. That’s right. Black eye for the wedding! Amazing stuff really. And nothing a keg of beer in the common grave couldn’t fix. (Yes, that also exists. Nothing like a cold beer at 10am on Labor Day morn while you lick your tomatoey wounds).

The tradition is ridiculous and wonderful and like Christmas-come-early. Granted, it is yet another example of the strange, bizarre traditions embedded in many an East Coast private club. Literally, grown-ass adults HURLING tomatoes at one another. Strategizing. Planning. Hunting. And then throwing with inappropriate might- at small children- big ol’ tomatoes. Hundreds of preppy white people chanting “KILL THE BLACKS.” Questionable. James’ fam has hosted a token black friend of ours for three wars, and obviously, he fights for the Red Army. Imagine the discomfort of some of the stuffy white folk as he joins in this chant. Or runs around the battle field yelling in the face of the entirely Caucasian legion, Hit me and it’s a hate crime.

Priceless.

When you become a member of the club you are put on either the Red or Black army, and then that is where your family forever stays. Now, as I’ve mentioned, James’ family is on the Red Army, and this goes back to his great-grandfather. Unfortunately for us, the Red Army is made up of women and children (save James and his three brothers) and the Black Army is compiled of big, angry, 20-40 year old men. This means, the Red Army loses. Every. Single. Year. Since the dawn of time. We’re still waiting for the day that all those little girls on the Red Army have big strapping boyfriends to help the cause.

And now the Bug has been born into this losing legacy. I’m sure that the Red Army is thrilled by our contribution of yet another woman and child for their ranks.

Your welcome fellow compatriots.

While we missed this year’s battle (yes, the Red Army lost. Again.), we proudly (and safely) wore our Red Army colors in LA (because we were 3,000 miles away from 40-year-old-tomato-armed-black-army-men).

The Bug, however, did get her first taste of a Black Army assault.

Get used to it kid.