La commedia.  I decapitated the plant, right at the crown.  Big ugly thing it was, as frazzled as the man on the 14-Mission yesterday dipping snuff, his cheeks caved in around his gumline.

Plumful of hope, I planted two tomato seedlings last May in a big pot on the sunniest part of the deck. Why?  I have never been able to grow tomatoes well, even in Berkeley.  My neighbor David’s produce, mine don’t.  I don’t get as much sun.  Mine are in pots.  It’s not my karma. Whatever.  Even  ‘Sun Gold’ was a bust 2 years ago. The culinary gods know an apostate when they see one.

I count on redemption, so when David offered me a choice of seedlings he had sprouted, I took a ‘Missouri Love-Apple’ and a ‘Black from Tula’.   I fertilized, they grew, they blossomed, they grew, they blossomed.  The blossoms withered.  A high wind sheered off  ‘Missouri’ six inches above the dirt.  In the vacancy ‘Tula’ made hay, but no tomatoes.  Weeks turned into years.  Just when I was ready to face facts, I discovered: one tomato. A stay of execution.

I picked the tomato this afternoon.  It was half rotten. If I were surgically adept, I might have gotten a slice large enough to cover a lima bean.


2 responses to “È FINITA

  1. Apropos of nothing, I thought I’d share this short paragraph that I read yesterday. I hope you don’t mind.

    Here it is in it’s entirety—

    Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string if letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow evrybody’s head off.

  2. or small enough to cover a lima bean.


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