Remember that time back in the beginning of summer – which seems so so so so long ago already – when I embarked on the tilling of the soils and the farming of the land? Except maybe instead of tilling and hoeing, I was just throwing potting soil into a planter and stuffing in a couple of tomato plants, but we don’t need to get caught up in those minor details, amiright, Reader? Right.
My farm was thriving when I had it in the front of the house. The deer were greatly enjoying the buffet I had planted for them. So I had to move my farm to my back deck, where there was still sunshine and it was easily watered, but the deer were thwarted from consuming my hard work.
But my farm refused to thrive. The plants looked stringy, and they would flower, but then the flowers would just wither up and not become a tomato. It was making me mad at my farm.
Then I had kump’ney in July, and my kump’ney recommended some fertilizer and some stakes to tie ’em up. I thought fertilizer was hokum, and not really good for much, so I hadn’t bothered.
But I heeded her advice and I spent additional dollars on my farm, and then the rains came in and they started to flourish!
The fertilizer was working!
They were big and bushy and green and there were tiny tomatoes and I could almost taste them on my sammiches and fried up green in my skillet.
They stalled out at about the size of a golf ball.
The summer moved on. My golf ball tomatoes just …. stayed. Then some of them began to rot from the bottom.
I’d twist the pots to catch the sun differently, water water water. Still golf balls.
The September came. And I still had enjoyed only one golf-ball sized tomato from my farm.
I persisted. And they started getting larger. And the hint of yellow color began seeping under their skin.
I was going to finally reap what I’d sown, Reader, and lawdy, was I ready for those homegrown ripe tomatoes! Lightly salted sliced ripe tomatoes on buttered toast is one of my all-time favorite breakfast/lunch treats during the summer months, and I was ready for it.
My Harvest was finally ready and it was time to gather!
DJ was supervising the bounty. And also probably sniffing to see if they were strawberries, which are his favorite thing ever to roll around in.
He sniffed the harvest and walked on by, disappointed.
So now you’re thinking, “My, oh, my, that Trixie sure does know how to grow a potted farm!” And you’re looking at my bowl of goodness with envy.
The rest of the story may or may not be true.
Perhaps Trixie never actually harvested more than the one golf-ball sized tomato from her farm.
Perhaps Trixie had to buy a package of tomatoes from Costco if she wanted to enjoy toast and tomatoes.
Perhaps the softball sized tomatoes are still just in the planted pots thinking about maybe turning a warmer shade of green before the first frost settles in and she hasn’t enjoyed any of the fruits of her labors, unless those labors were shopping and opening the plastic on the giant container of tomatoes she purchased for $6.
Perhaps, as her summer kump’ney recently suggested, “Maybe you should just pick them while they’re green and put them in a paper bag and they’ll ripen eventually,” Trixie might try this.
And lastly, perhaps next summer Trixie will once again spend $20.94 and yield one golf-ball sized tomato because while she is many adjectives, she is not a quitter. Even when Costco rubs her nose right in it.