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.