The poem
The street filled with tomatoes, midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets. In December, unabated, the tomato invades the kitchen, it enters at lunchtime, takes its ease on countertops, among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars. It sheds its own light, benign majesty. Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red viscera a cool sun, profound, inexhaustible, populates the salads of Chile, happily, it is wed to the clear onion, and to celebrate the union we pour oil, essential child of the olive, onto its halved hemispheres, pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism; it is the wedding of the day, parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously, the aroma of the roast knocks at the door, it's time! come on! and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer, the tomato, star of earth, recurrent and fertile star, displays its convolutions, its canals, its remarkable amplitude and abundance, no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns, the tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
I think when Neruda writes pomes about foods of his country is too show us that they have a purpose for this world but they suffer like when he swaid the ode to tomatoes he said to bad we have to kill it.It's color shines and it grows too just be eatin thats why I think he writes about his food because he doesn't take it for granted.People celibrate weddings graduationswith food it's a conversaqtion starter and everyone eats.But what he's sayin is that the foods pure and and the purness is taken away when its cooked.