Tomatoes.
The joke of the house. Why can I grow things no one else can; but, tomatoes
elude me? I think it is one of God’s little jokes. Each year I buy an
established hearty tomato plant. I buy organic soil. I use a water meter. I set
it out to bathe in the warm summer sun and bring it in to protect it from the
chilly summer nights. As it grows, I lovingly provide a new home (pot) for it’s
roots to expand and absorb the nourishment needed to produce those elusive
flowers that yield that red delicious sweet fruit.
Each
year my “supportive” husband snorts as I purchase this plant. He sighs as he
helps tote it back and forth, in and out.
He winks as I proudly display the two small greenish red tomatoes. He
pats me on the back as fall arrives and I groan while putting the summer
vegetable containers away knowing that elusive tomato plant has beat me again.
I
ponder on what could have gone wrong. Was the variety the wrong type for here?
At 9000’ I don’t think that there is a preferred variety. Did it get too hot,
too much sun? My lettuce will wilt if
left in the full sun all day at this altitude. Did it get too dry or too wet?
Certain container materials will either keep a plant too wet or absorb too much
of the moisture away from the plant. Was it not protected enough from the wind?
These questions have plagued me over the years of my attempts. This year, I
think, I have the answers. I over cared for a plant that did not love me back.
This
summer, a member of the Columbine Garden Club in Idaho Springs was handing out
cherry tomato seedlings. You know I was NOT going to put any more money out on
a plant that refused to love me back. Thus, I figured I’d take this seedling,
plant it in whatever soil I had laying around and just let it go. I got this
newly transplanted delicate little seedling home and left it in its Solo red
cup for over a week. I watered it at my leisure. I planted it when it was
convenient in an over-sized plastic pot. I left it outside. We had a late frost
and it was left out all night. Some of the leaves had “frostbite” and fell off.
I brought it in and set it by the slider door. The temperatures vary there from
the glass and the door constantly opening and closing. Summer rolled on; in and
out went the plant for better or for worst. As it started its need to climb, I
put in a support post. It was nothing fancy, just an old broken wire sign
holder that looks like a H. I set that plant out on the deck next to the heat
absorbed siding of the house to create a mini micro climate and provide a bit of
wind protection. I left it to minimum care. That plant was going to have to
show me some love before I made much more effort.
As
my “ supportive” husband commented that this was just to be another love hate
romance year with the ever elusive tomato. Lo and behold, this rogue plant from
the Solo red cup started to yield not just those yellow flowers but small hard
green fruit. That fruit took hold and grew into sweet cherry tomatoes
throughout the summer. As the season started to come to close, Trixie the tomato
plant (if she lasted this long, she gets a name), continued to produce clumps
of 4 to 5 tomatoes at a time. It was time to start loving Trixie back.
Trixie
was brought inside and given prime winter window location. A wire trellis made from 4 gage wire fencing
was installed into the pot. The various “legs” of Trixie were delicately woven
into the wire for better support. Trixie could now stretch out with ease. She
was put on a regular water schedule. Trixie the Tomato Plant was living life
large, literally. I have been careful
not to hoover and Trixie just keeps showing the love. It’s now February and I
still have fresh tomatoes every couple of weeks. I wonder how long this plant
will keep producing in this environment? We’ll have to wait and see.
Lesson learned: You
can smother a plant to death with “love.”
Hi Tina,
ReplyDeleteI'm a Jeffco MG and you had a master gardener table at a Produce & Health Fair I did a couple years ago. I love your story and I am so happy you finally found a tomato that loves you! Nancy O'Brien