Week 33/52: Tomato Plants and Timing

Hello, Subscriber First Name,

I walk out to my humble yet productive garden and peer through the dense branches of my cherry tomato plants. In May I purchased two, six inch pots from my local garden store and absentmindedly planted them in one of my raised beds.

Sugar snap peas were in a neat row next to them, but in the past few months the tomatoes have completely exploded to such a degree that they have obliterated any chances the peas had to produce anything noteworthy.

I’m learning how to garden, and in a conversation with my mother (who has always had an incredible garden every year of my life), I learn that my grandfather used to cut back his tomato plants. While on the phone with her I look down at the sprawling and honestly unruly nature of my own tomatoes…

I can understand why he might prune back the bristly branches. But I find myself hesitating and just leave mine to themselves, I decide to just let them have permission to make their way out of the planter boxes and onto the ground, the weight of their bounty pinning them to my weed-ridden yard.

I’m beginning to learn when to pluck the small yellow and orange treats from their vine; I gently tug and when they are ready they plop into my open hand. Their warmth and weight is soothing.

There are times when I’ve been a bit too eager and have felt a gentle ripping as I pull a tomato a little too early. I notice a little too late that there is a green hint on the yellow hide, I was a little mistaken in thinking it was ready.

I’ve been thinking a lot about timing, about readiness, about when things come into our lives or when they leave them.

I feel more connected to the seasons these days and I find myself clinging to the last days of summer. As I gather the bulk of the fruit from my plants I eat some in the yard, some over the kitchen sink, and some I place into the eager hands of friends. I wonder when I’ll eat the last one, when the frost will return and my boxes will be barren.

I wonder what my grandfather would do. How would he manage a Colorado winter? How would his knowledge translate to the desert surrounding me? I never knew him, he died before I was born. Timing.

I guess I’ll just call my mom. _______________________________________________________________________

I hope this email finds you full of the fruits of summer.

Love,

Amy