Tangled Tomatoes

It must be hereditary--that compulsion to grow tangled tomatoes. 

When we lived on the farm, Mom and Dad grew a regular garden on the north side of the big red barn, with radishes, peas, beans, potatoes, lettuce, and tomatoes, all in nice, neat rows.(Even at the age of three, I was able to push each shriveled pea seed into the moist, brown dirt.) The sweet corn, with extra to sell, was planted on the edge of the adjacent corn field. When we moved to Norfolk, we didn't have any garden at all, and when we moved to Fairbury shortly after my ninth birthday, there was no place for a garden--until Dad bought an old house a block away from the Hotel Mary-Etta, where we lived, and where Mom and Dad both worked.

Dad bought that dilapidated house to use for storage, but he was most interested in the sizeable back yard. The first spring he owned the property, he tilled up half of the backyard and planted several rows of sweet corn, and at least a dozen tomato plants. He probably planted a short row of Black-Seeded Simpson lettuce, as well, and a few radishes, and onion sets for the green onions he loved to eat raw. 

The following year, he expanded his garden to the entire backyard. Dad's plants were well-watered and generously fertilized; the corn reached for the sky, and his tomato plants sprawled all over the place. He tended his garden every day. Often, the whole family helped pick tomatoes and corn. For several weeks, at every evening meal, our family feasted on tender corn on the cob, and luscious, juicy tomatoes. The extras--and there were dozens, if not hundreds, of extras every week--were given away or included on each dinner plate at the Mary-Etta Cafe and, later, at the Stable, the restaurant Mom and Dad eventually opened. I helped Mom can jar after jar of quartered tomatoes, destined to be used to make chili and spaghetti sauce all winter long. 

Dad's tomatoes and sweet corn were legendary.

Here in Gering, I haven't had enough garden space for sweet corn, but I've been attempting to grow tomatoes ever since Bill and I planted our first garden when we lived in Michigan. We've always harvested a few tomatoes to eat, and even enough to can a few jars for the winter, but until last year, I can't say that my tomatoes ever rivaled Dad's. But then, Bill and I moved our garden from the too-shady corner where we had planted it for more than two decades, to our brand new, raised garden beds, in a sunny strip of ground sandwiched between the backyard sidewalk and the concrete basketball court. (There's nothing like a little passive solar energy to spur on a reluctant crop of tomatoes.) Bill rigged the sprinkler system to water the garden appropriately, and ordered plenty of manure-laced topsoil to fill the raised beds. Even though we weren't able to plant last summer's new garden until the middle of June, we harvested bumper crops of cucumbers, zucchini, butternut squash, and tomatoes.

This year, I planted the garden early, at the proper times for each vegetable. For several weeks, I enjoyed fresh spinach and snow peas with every lunch salad. (I always thought that Dad's beloved Black-Seed Simpson lettuce was too limp and bitter, so I refuse to grow it.) By the middle of June, it looked like we were going to have respectable crops of everything we planted.

And then, it hailed. Levi helped me cover most of the garden as the massive storm was rolling in, but the merciless wind tore the tarps off of half my tomato plants and snow peas, and the wind-driven hail managed to damage some of the covered plants anyway. I pulled my shredded beets the next day; they had been about ready to harvest, and the roots themselves were undamaged. We gathered the mangled snow peas for immediate use in some Chinese recipe Bill found; the most tedious job was cutting out the mushy parts so we could salvage what remained, but the dish itself was quite tasty.

And then, the tomatoes... Half of my six plants survived with minimal damage, but the others seemed to be totally ruined. I pruned them severely, cutting off the mangled branches, and hoped for the best. As you can see in the picture above, the once-desecrated plants on the left have thrived, even surpassing their undamaged cousins on the right, and all of the caged plants are taller than I am. (Note to self: next year, we need taller, heavy duty tomato cages, in any color except red, to make the ripe tomatoes easier to find.) Now, I am in the midst of harvesting a bumper crop of tomatoes (and cucumbers, too, but that's another story.)

So, I am eating garden-fresh tomatoes with every meal, canning dozens of pints to use this winter, and giving some away. I don't think I'll ever grow tired of tomatoes, but I may be glad when this particular crop is totally harvested and processed. And next year, I think four tomato plants might be enough.

Dad would be so proud.

The Lord will send rain at the proper time from his rich treasury in the heavens

and will bless all the work you do.

Deuteronomy 28:12

When you have eaten and are satisfied,

praise the Lord your God for the good land he has given you.

Deuteronomy 8:10