Globes of Desire

Every year is the same. The urge to plant takes control of my mind and body. I must get seeds, new seeds, seeds I have never grown before, seeds for the perfect tomato.

Even though I have scores of packets of seeds left over from previous years, seeds that produced tomatoes proclaimed to be the best-ever by family and friends, I fall for the latest pitch: “Here’s a newly re-discovered heirloom developed by Thomas Jefferson in Virginia that’s just become available to the public.” Of course, I must have it, I must grow it, I must eat it.

In years past I would have lustfully ogled page after page of luscious, round, ripe globes of desire. The tomato sections of a dozen or more catalogues would come alive with the smell, scent and taste of the fruit that is the sweetest gift of summer. But today I’ve forsworn the catalogues for the screen, and I sit here with my Apple in my lap looking at pixels of the apples of the earth.

I order the new seeds and sit by the mailbox for the next two weeks, waiting for my new seeds. Valentine’s Day comes and goes; my wife, who has patiently stood by me during these long days of waiting, rejoices at the sight of the delivery van in the driveway. At last I can begin the planting.

Yes, it is three months until the last official frost-free night. Yes, it is too soon to sow the seeds. Yes, in 60 days the plants will get too big for the space under the lights, but the seeds have come and I must plant.
 
So I gather the materials, lay out the seed packets, new and old, and make my decision. I will plant the new varieties, of course, at least two six-packs each (just in case). And the varieties from last year—all but that yellow pear that just didn’t produce—only one nine- pack of each of those. And the several varieties from the two or three years before last that were just too good not to have again; here I plant two six-packs each, just to be sure of germination.

So there they are, all planted in nice little cell packs that only take up one shelf under the grow lights of my indoor growing area. Have I considered the fact that I have the potential for well over 100 tomato plants? Of course I have, but I rationalize that some won’t germinate, some will succumb to a fungus, some will die in that late frost when I plant them too early, some will be given to friends and neighbors, and the rest will thrive in my garden to give a summer of tasty treats.

So the weeks pass, the equinox slips quietly past as the two feet of snow from the St. Patrick’s day storm refuses to subside. The plants have germinated, all but a few, even the five-year-old seeds produced two plants per cell. The true leaves have appeared, and each day the tiny plants seem to double in size. I have done too good a job: the perfect planting medium, the right amount of water and light. And under the gentle breeze from the overhead fan, the shelf has come alive with swaying green entities, looking to be moved to a larger, more accommodating home.

The next month passes quickly, the dozen or so varieties have all flourished, only a few lost to disease, and one the casualty of a run-in with the cat. All space under the lights has been assigned, all south-and west-facing windows are now impossible to approach since I’ve pushed tables crowded with tomato seedlings into all available sections of the house that receive light. Tomatoes: 85; Family: 0.

I know this has happened to other people, but no one will admit it to me. Could I be the only one who sows more seed than I can really grow? Am I the only one who has containers of tomatoes all over the deck and yard, because there is no more room in the garden? Am I the only one who commits “tomatocide” on the plants that I can’t give away and that won’t fit anywhere on my property? I think not.

Will I ever learn? Will I do it all over again next year? Of course I will. Because once I pop a Super-Sweet 100 in my mouth or bite into a vine-ripe Brandywine, the nectar of the gods wipes my mind clean. Before long, it’ll be October and I’ll have only one last question: what do I do with the 60 pounds of green tomatoes I picked last night to save from the frost? 
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By Ed McMonagle, Master Gardener  

5/09/07