I’ll Pass on the Tomatoes

Ellen C. Wells

Can I complain for a moment? Do you mind? Great, thanks. There’s just a little something I need to get off my chest.

You see, it’s mid-July and my vegetable gardens look fabulous. I was late getting them in, thanks to a chilly spring and a slate of travel that kept me away too long. But get them planted I did. I’m keeping everything watered and weeded, the tomatoes pinched and tied, the kale and lettuce seedlings thinned and my overly vigorous oregano closely cropped like a Marine. The gardens look good.

Except ...

Except one quadrant of one garden is bare. It has nothing in it, not even weeds. Given my late start and time away, something had to give if I wanted to plant and tend the garden to the quality I wish to cultivate. And that something was this part of the garden.

Until last week it was a weedy mess. Mare’s tail and pigweed were hip high. Rogue dill was everywhere, and the bind weed, the scourge of the community garden, was gaining a foothold. But—but!—I did get it weeded. And I was hoping to go to a garden center and find some larger-sized plants of eggplants or peppers or zucchini or celery or something other than tomatoes. Guess what I found? JUST LARGER TOMATOES.

I have the tomatoes. I don't have eggplant or zucchini. I tried celery for the first time last year (not true: I tried celery 10 years ago and it came down with a nasty virus) and wanted to plant it again this year. It’s not gonna happen.

Yes, there were some smaller plants of peppers, herbs, that sort of thing. Larger veg plants, though, only came in tomato flavor.

Maybe I haven’t mentioned, but I already have tomatoes—10 of them.

I don’t have eggplant.

I don’t have Bloody Mary swizzle sticks.

So I planted seeds of kale, beets, chard, some green beans—things that produce late and long or quickly and short. Luckily I had the seeds on hand. I didn’t see the seed display anywhere in the garden center.

Now hear me out before you turn the page or slam the computer shut. There are plenty of people like me out there that got a late start in the vegetable garden. For whatever reason—wicked weather, family emergencies, business travel—they didn’t get going at the “normal time.” But they have time now. And they’d rather not be picking their first pepper in September.

I know what you did. You pitched whatever veg plants remaining on the benches on July 1 straight onto the compost pile. You made room for the truckload of tropicals you brought in to sell at 50% off. “You missed the Pepper Plane, the Eggplant Express, the Celery Streetcar!”, is what you’re saying to your customers. “Try again, come again—NEXT YEAR!”

(With the addendum, “You’re welcome to board the Tomato Train or Banana Boat, though; we’ve got plenty of those!”)

Maybe we won’t try again next year.

Maybe the memory of that horrible virus will outweigh the awesomeness of last year’s celery crop. Maybe next year I recall that I’ve never had good luck with eggplant anyway. Maybe I’ll figure I'll just live on the gifts of other zucchini gardeners rather than growing my own. Plus, the weekly farmer’s market is not far from my house so why bother with all this gardening anyway?

Can’t you pot up those extra eggplants or surplus celery a week or two before you suspect you’ll pitch them and sell them to me for more in mid-July?

Thanks, but I’m all set with the tomatoes. GP