We had started the tomatoes on our enclosed veranda at the beginning of spring. We tucked organic plum tomato seeds in long plastic planters filled with nitrate-rich soil. We babied them with attention. We debated if we were watering too much or not enough, if they would enjoy morning sun or afternoon sun, if the spring chill would impair their growth. We rejoiced when the sprouts emerged from soil, and took pride in the steady growth of our tomato babies.
The tomato babies grew as if determined to outgrow their containers. They became so crowded that they looked as if they were holding hands. Mr. P felt it was time to move them to the garden, saying they would be happier outside, that they would have space to stretch their vines into the air and roots into the ground. It was only the end of May, and I fretted that the nights were still too cool to allow them outside. But I gave in, knowing that we couldn’t keep the tomato babies in planters forever.
We moved the tomato babies to the garden. They didn’t adjust very well at first. Their leaves drooped and turned yellow. We thought they were dying, but after a few weeks, they regained their health and continued to grow. I had other fears for their safety, particularly from the neighborhood squirrels and any errant rabbits. Another threat was our neighbor’s ivy growing on the fence behind the plants. We hacked off the invading vines, but it grew fast and determined towards our tomato babies.
We had no control over the biggest problem, which was the rain. Constant soaking thunderstorms dropped three times the normal rainfall in June and July. The development of the tomatoes slowed. The tiny yellow flowers gave us hope, but there was no fruit when there should have been fruit. Finally, in the second week of August, scores of tiny green bulbs burgeoned from the sepals. We reinforced the ties to the posts. We pruned the leaves not destined to become fruit-bearing stems. We were excited to reap our tomato bounty. But just as the green bulbs developed into full-sized fruit, the days grew mild and shorter. The deepest color that our tomatoes could manifest was a blushing orange.
We plucked our tomato babies from the vines and we gathered the fallen ones from the topsoil. Their flesh was parched and dense. They were not sweet. But we ate them. We ate pounds of them. How could we not? Yet we were silently disappointed. Our expectations were not met. Our efforts were not rewarded. Our tomato babies had grown up, and they lacked any redeeming quality other than that they were ours.
