Those sweet, juicy, tangy, citrusy-fresh heralds of late summer.
I planted 20 plants, in 4 different varieties (no heirlooms this year—too slow, too late am I ;_;), and they are lush, green, gangly monsters, tripping over themselves in their tangle through the cages. ::sigh:: And heavy with fruit.
We’ve had a lot of rain. Its a remarkable green.
But no sun :(
Mum tries to cheer me up. “If it frosts, pick them on the vine, wrap them up in towels or paper, keep them in your basement until they ripen.”
“Have you smelt our basement?” cries I.
It is rank.
(Convenience isn’t the only reason I want to move the laundry room upstairs.)
And hardly dry.
“Closet, then.” Mum is ever practical.
But that’s hardly the point. This is my first real year of growing tomatoes. Last year, yes there were a few plants. But then I moved out, and it was hardly the same, having visitation rights.
The year before, nothing grew.
Before that, it wasn’t my garden. I barely presumed to eat Other People’s tomatoes.
They’re supposed to be perfect. Vine ripened on the plant, magical globes of ecstasy, grown in my soil, through my efforts, picked after they’ve turned the perfect hue and brilliance and size and density and smell, and not a moment before.
“Perhaps you’d better develop a taste for green tomatoes,” says she.