Three weeks ago, when it seemed that Mother Nature had made her intention of pressing the fast forward seasonal button true and well-known, I broke down and went shopping at Lowes. In March, I am usually able to resist the urge to meander through the aisles of young plants so full of the promise of a vibrantly lush spring and summer landscape– you know, the one I imagine my yard will someday be instead of only the neighbor of the person with the nicest yard in the neighborhood. However, at this point, I had already mowed my lawn twice, had to put down the first round of weed and feed, and burned through two boxes of Kleenex trying to make it through the earlier-than-ever-before oak and pine pollen season. It seemed pretty obvious that Spring was here.
So I went and found myself seduced by the siren song that is any garden center in the Springtime.
I told myself that I was only buying a few petunia plants for my hanging baskets. I love to buy the teeny tiny little ones that cost about a buck and then watch them grow. Last year, they lasted from April through December. Can you imagine that? Three dollars for eight months of just plain pretty.
I told myself that I didn’t need anything else. Surely the eighty-degree temperatures wouldn’t last. Surely I didn’t have space in my garden for anything else. I mean, at this point I don’t even know what plants are in my garden right now. So much for thinking I’d remember what I planted where. Surely I could resist.
Surely there was no harm in strolling through the vegetable garden section. We still haven’t gotten around to putting a fence in– though we did go so far as to get a quote. And last summer the deer ate my two pitiful little tomatoes that I tried to grow in the wretched soil found in our backyard.
I would just look. Really.
I have no will power. The mermaids totally would have led me to my death.
Nine tomato plants.
Rutgers Heirloom Tomatoes
3 weeks ago:
I haven’t enough planters yet. These poor four fellows are hanging out together until I can figure out how to plant them in a way that will allow them to grow without making a bigger more tacky mess than I already have.
You see, my solution to the deer and backyard soil problem– I’d put them in planters and grow them on the porch. I mean, of course the deer aren’t smart enough to walk around the roses and holly to get to the tomatoes. It isn’t like they ate the lilies last spring or anything. Clearly, I live in the world of fantasy.
German Queen Heirloom Tomatoes
3 weeks ago:
I couldn’t resist this tomato plant. The marker has a picture of a tomato with a baseball sitting on top of it. The tomato is three and a half times larger than the baseball. Can you imagine the price per pound for a tomato like that? I mean, if only one grows the plant has paid for itself times four.
Leave me to my rationalizations.
Now, what I want to know is how that (staked though it is) stalk is going to hold up that many giant tomatoes. Count them…six. Six tomatoes that are supposedly bigger than baseballs.
Lemon Boy Hybrid Tomatoes and Sweet Cherry Tomatoes
3 weeks ago:
As most spur of the moment decisions go, I didn’t have enough planters to go around– and still don’t, if you remember the Rutgers tomatoes I just showed you. Last week, I repotted these. They were a little unhappy the day after, but have bounced back since.
Lemon Boy Hybrid Tomatoes
Isn’t it pretty? And perfect? And doesn’t it make you want a tomato sandwich? Maybe that’s just me.
Sweet Cherry Tomatoes
Think of it as a pint of tomatoes waiting to happen.
Black Krim Heirloom Tomatoes & Heirloom Yellow Pear Tomatoes
3 weeks ago:
I separated these as well. In fact, the Yellow Pear tomatoes, which have already grown to half my height, demanded repotting.
Black Krim Heirloom Tomatoes
These are dark purple tomatoes. I’ve always wanted to eat a dark purple tomato. I hope I have enough to photograph a plate full of these all sliced.
Heirloom Yellow Pear Tomatoes
If ever there was a tomato more suited to summer salads, I have not tasted it. Yellow Pear tomatoes are small, sweet, succulent summer salad (I’ll stop now)tomatoes.
And look at their cute little shapes. Like pears. Who’d have thunk it?
Yes, they are taking up a fifth of my front porch, and likely by the end of the summer they will have taken over more than that (stay away from my plants you crazy deer), but they smell wonderful right now. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to buy a tomato all summer; If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to simply walk out to my porch to get one– or more.