Ripe tomatoes

As I mentioned in my last post, my tomatoes are at last ripening.  It has taken them awhile.  It has rained a lot.

The funny thing is that I don't know what to call them.  I planted seeds for two species of tiny red tomatoes, the sweet 100s and some currant-size tomatoes, and those are still only about two inches tall.  I planted seedlings of three types of more exotic snacking tomatoes, Golden Sweet, Ildi, and something I can't remember the name of.  Finally I planted a seedling for Cherokee Purple heirloom slicing tomatoes.  I know this one is hopeless.  I have never lived anywhere in Massachusetts with a sunny enough aspect to produce any tomatoes larger than romas, and so far this plant has only produced one flower.  Oh, and I may have planted seeds for romas this year, too, but I can't remember.  It's hard to tell when everything I've tried to grow from seed is still only two inches tall -- except for the peas, which died of heat prostration long ago, in spite of all the rain.

Okay, so none of that's really funny, per se.  Now we'll get to the funny.  (You don't have to hold your sides or anything.  It's mild stuff.)

I went on Tuesday to Hutchins Farm, birthplace of my successful seedlings.  When I selected the seedlings, Hutchins' opening had been delayed because of the bad, bad weather.  However, they had a small, choice harvest of asparagus spears and many assorted herb, vegetable and flower seedlings for sale on an honor system.  You could buy whatever you liked, and just put the price indicated into a little unattended lockbox.

The many, many palettes of seedlings were accompanied by a notebook which listed all the varieties, with descriptions.  I read them all carefully, inspired by Twisty to seek out especially tiny and sweet cultivars, and inspired by past experience to look for disease resistance, as well.  I chose Golden Sweet, Ildi, and something else. 

Thing is, I lost the tag for the something else.  So when I was back at Hutchins (for organically grown local blueberries, which turned out to cost $6 a pint, so I only got one, for baking, partly because of Shuna), I looked over the different kinds of snacking tomatoes for sale by the basket, and realized I still couldn't identify mine.  I asked to see the notebook, and it was provided me cheerfully.  Still I could not figure it out.

"Well, what do they look like?" asked the kindly cashier.

"Here's the thing.  On one plant, I had one tomato that was round like this, but orange like that.  All the others on that plant and all the other plants are between this color of yellow and that color of orange, yet all of them are also grapely-shaped like these here or pearish-shaped like those over there."

Yes, we giggled over this.  We did.  'Cause that's just how the crazy gardening fools roll.

I suspect some cross-pollination has been going on out on the balcony.  Whatever.  What matters is that these tomatoes are delicious, and not nearly as screamingly, chemically yellow as this photo would indicate.  What matters, and why I bother to go through some version of this every year, is that moment when I pick them and pop them in my mouth and my true love's while they are still sun warm and bursting with juice that explodes onto our tongues and runs down our throats with all the pleasure that is life, and summer.

Comments

[Melissa B.]

You have clearly had some wild sex parties in your garden, that you were not invited to join.

I love, love, love summer tomatoes. Of all varieties. All.

[Sara]

I KNOW. And I haven't decided yet whether or not to be offended.

Naw. As long as I get yummy tomatoes, I guess I'm cool with it. Besides, while I love birds, bees and butterflies, truly and deeply, I really only want to be their friend.