For the first 20 years that I owned my house its landscaping consisted of weeds, sand and fallen oak leaves. I hadn’t noticed.
When one of medium-term boyfriends asked if they could lay sod for me—apparently a popular romantic gesture—I declined. Grass seemed pointless. And since I am the least visually observant person I know, my own lack of shrubbery had the same impact on me as the elaborate topiary of my neighbors. Which is to say, none.
But while landscaping seemed pointless, I was intrigued with the possibility of being able to “pick” dinner from my own garden.
Flavor Extraction
As a non-meat eater, I consume a lot of vegetables.
No doubt there were organic farmer’s markets somewhere, and had I known that and shopped there, none of this might have happened. But, while I don’t eat meat—I buy my groceries like everyone else—at the grocery store.
But the retail tomatoes were undergoing a strange devolution. They vacillated between two extremes. On the one hand, there were those that looked roughly like a tomato, but paler and harder. They appeared to be in need of a tanning bed.
And then there were their shelf-mates who were more expensive but vivid, ripe-red. Along with being gloriously brilliant-hued, they looked like they had undergone liposuction or body smoothing. Unlike the oddly-shaped u-pick tomatoes I had grown up picking, they were perfect spheres.
As it happens, the distinction between these two offerings was only skin deep. While one might expect the pale, hard specimens to lack flavor, expectation were higher for their pin-up looking neighbors. But those super-models were Stepford tomatoes. Beautiful? Yes. But it’s what’s inside that counts. And inside was a complete absence of flavor.
They must have sold their flavor to the devil in return for (likely eternal) good looks,
And apparently, the flavor depletion was spreading. Carrots were becoming less sweet —they were crunchily tasteless. And the cucumbers were candidates for Madame Tussaud’s with their unique blend of wax, snap and lack of flavor.
This could not stand. I resolved to restore flavor to my salad bowl. But, it would require a few changes to my lifestyle and landscaping.
Dig, Dig, Dig
February
In the back yard, which bore a striking resemblance to the front yard’s weedy, sandy surface, I plotted my vegetable garden. It would be dead center, where the sun was brightest.
According to various books and websites, this would be straightforward. I cleared the plot of its deep-rooted weeds and native grasses. At the garden center I loaded Gene (my handyman’s) truck with bags and bags of soil, chicken wire, a collection of garden hardware, tomato hoops and baby tomato plants.
Gene created a perimeter of the wire and helped with hauling away all of the yard waste I had dug out.
At last, after at least several weeks of shopping and reading — and at least 30 hours of my own hard labor— the baby tomato plants were in the ground.
So began the farming.
Over the ensuing weeks I watered, weeded and fertilized. The plants grew. After weeks and weeks, the plants were taller than the hoops. The cherry tomato flowers began to sprout. The beefsteak’s took longer. But at last, they too had flowers on them.
I watched as the tiny fruits emerged. Every morning I watered and inspected my tomatoes. Were they ready? Not yet. But surely the tiny cherry tomatoes were close.
May
One morning, I went out, hoping finally to taste a cherry tomato, but the bunches I had been watching were turning brown not red.
Not only were the fruits dying, but the leaves were mottled and yellowing. At the bottoms of the plants they looked shriveled. It seems to be working its way to every leaf and stem. The tiny flowers that had been there were fading. They looked droopy and shriveled.
I frantically took photos and did reverse image searches. Old Farmer Google said it was fungus. Apparently it’s common. I would need to spray—repeatedly. Maybe I could save them. Maybe not.
The problem (I learned) was that I was watering by hand. And the sky was also dropping water on them. Water droplets sitting on fragile leaves for hours was a welcoming bath for mold. My tomatoes had athletes’ foot!
Back to the garden center for fungicide. Plus, new soil, fertilizer and plants to replace the ones that were too far gone. And, to solve the problem of overhead water, the equipment to add drip irrigation!
A week of revision began. There was, of course, more digging, planting, fertilizing and staking. Then, my lack of mechanical aptitude made a hash of the drip irrigation and a professional was needed. Gene undid what I had wrought, and got the dripping to work.
But 4 months into this project and I had no produce—just filthy fingernails and the heartwarming experience of having the Lowe’s employees know me by name.
Still, the work was paying off. The replacement plants seemed to be ok. They were growing fluffy. I continued scrupulously tending to my garden. While there were no tomatoes, the plants definitely smelled tomato-ey! Things were looking up.
July
I was watching my first beefsteak tomato grow. It was still just a little, green pellet, but it was the first. So it would only be a few weeks now.
Then, I noticed the leaves. They were curling. Many of them were brown rather than green—and they seemed heavy. When I touched them I realized the bottoms of the leaves were covered with small bumps. This couldn’t be good.
Back to reverse search. Aphids! Gross.
The backs of every leaf seemed to be covered with these destructive pests. They were the size of sesame seeds—but were as lethal as cyanide.
It was my fault. The lack of any real visual attentiveness had allowed these interlopers to gain a foothold. They must have been there for a while because they were everywhere. That could not have happened so fast. I had missed their arrival.
This would be a problem. I couldn’t spray pesticide on edible plants. And there were so many of them. They recommend spraying with a jet of water, or removing by hand. Neither was practical or even possible given how prolific they were.
But I tried every recommended remedy: Spraying with soapy water, Neem oil, vinegar. I tried them all. But to no avail. The gorgeous, fluffy, fragrant plants all died.
Back to the garden shop for new plants and more soil.
October
Did I tell you that this all took place in Florida? Florida is a giant illusion. It looks like a civilized modern place—but beneath the surface and after the sun sets, it remains the swamp it was before modern developers dredged its bays and attempted to bury its fens. The rodents, gators, insects, and other vermin never left. They still live here. And they are well-evolved to exploit their human colonizers.
It is that fact that became my new nemesis. With all the iterations the garden had experienced, I was nonetheless facing Halloween with nothing to show for my work.
But by October’s end, each plant was showing signs of future fruit. And, with each new budding tomato, I would stalk it, day by day marking progress. They got bigger, rounder, redder.
All the while, I was trying to be patient—waiting until the earliest moment that it would be possible to pick one and still have it turn out ripe enough to be delicious. But every time I would go to the garden, expecting to pick the tomato that had portended readiness the day before, something would have gotten to it first. My fruits had bites taken out of them. Sometimes their entire innards were gone. Often, there would be little but a small, jagged and meaty carcass left hanging from the stem.
It was a nightly massacre.
November
It was time to reinforce the perimeter. Gene and I went shopping for more chicken wire. We enclosed the entire plot. The only way in was through a make shift “door” that was basically a giant sheet of chicken wire.
Now that my plants were safe from roaming rodents, it was once again safe to hope.
The beefsteaks were looking prolific. Lots of little green orbs. Every morning I would visit the plant. One specific tomato had begun to grow bigger, and to turn pink. I was so enthralled that I named it. Petruchio, the romantic lead of my future salad.
Several weeks went by, and Petruchio had grown. He was magnificent. A beautiful, giant reddening tomato—as bright as the Florida sun that fed him.
Then, one day—a Tuesday—I could see that it would finally be about time to bring him into the house. That morning—THE morning—I raced outside to pick my prized Petruchio.
He was gone. Gone! As though he had never been. There was no damaged corpse, no disgorged carcass. Just the stem where Petruchio hung only the day before—now free of its heavy burden.
Through the chicken wire encasement, through jagged pronged openings less than an inch across—someone—some demon— had stolen Petruchio.
I. Was. Furious. Also, sad, exhausted and ultimately, defeated.
Post Mortem
Finally, there was no remedy left to try. I harvested the few near-ripe cherry tomatoes. There was little point in bothering with the beefsteaks. They weren’t ripe enough to eat or to mature inside—and clearly, I would never beat the swamp creatures to them once they approached readiness.
I removed and disposed of the chicken wire. And I turned my back—leaving what remained of the garden to nature’s will. All the while, trying not to think about the thousands of dollars or hours of time I had spent on this effort.
That night, I scattered my salad with the 5 near-ripe cherry tomatoes. They were far sweeter than those in the grocery store. At last, I had reassured myself it was possible to find a tomato whose flavor was more distinct than water. That would have to be enough.