This spring, we bought six tiny tomato plants. Ko-Koi broke one (she has a fetish for green vegetables), but we managed to save both parts, giving us seven. We planted the tomatoes in the garden along with rows of sunflowers, beans, beets, four eggplants, five bell peppers, several herbs, and a peach tree named Packwood (named after creeping under my skirt once too often).
Everything was going along nicely. Then we went on vacation.
We came back to find a sea of green. Tomatoes covered everything. We had to transplant two of the eggplants and we lost the one with the red and white stripes. Most of the herbs had disappeared. The peppers and Packwood were okay, but we hadn’t planted any tomatoes in that box. However, the tomatoes in the next box over were trying to invade it.
Tomatoes overflowed everywhere. After a few weeks of picking, I noticed two things. The first was how much my back and legs hurt from standing for so long. The second was how much picking tomatoes was like fishing. The first thing you do is find a spot to fish or pick from. For fishing, that means either wading out in boots or going out in a boat.
For picking, it means wherever you can find room for your feet. Next, you cast off with your rod or your hand. Then you grope around until you feel something. Then you bring it up to the surface and decide if it’s big enough or ripe enough to eat. If it’s not, you throw it back.
If it is, then you pick it or reel it in. And of course, you can always brag about the ones that got away.
