The Minnesota Farm Woman

I love tomatoes. It doesn’t really matter what  size, shape or color they are, I love them all. I could easily say that tomatoes are my favorite food. Every year near planting time, I become a tomato plant collector.  I stop at nurseries and plant stands on the roadsides, looking for different varieties and usually purchase at least one of each.  I swap seeds with friends and acquaintances.  Any home-grown tomato tastes great, but I especially love the heirloom varieties.  Heirlooms tomatoes come from the seeds that someone’s great-grandmother carefully carried from the old country, sewn into the lining of her coat and lovingly planted with the seeds saved year after year.  They are the kind of tomato that you can eat standing in the garden with the juice dripping down your chin, or if you have a little more couth, standing over the kitchen sink on two pieces of homemade bread spread with mayonnaise and sprinkled liberally with salt and black pepper. This year, some of my heirloom choices are Black Krim, Brandywine, Box Car Willie, Abe Lincoln, Prudence Purple, and the old standbys of Roma and Yellow Pear.  I love the names as much as I love the tomatoes.   I haven’t counted them all yet, but I will be planting somewhere around 20 tomato plants. This is nothing compared to one of my first tomato gardens, planted the year that I was pregnant. That year, I planted nearly 30 tomato plants. I was planning to “put up” healthy spaghetti sauce, salsa and vegetable soup  for my growing little family.  I read canning books. I bought canning jars. I talked tomatoes to anyone who would listen. I was very “Earth Mother”  organic except for the hot dogs and Coke that I craved constantly. Many pregnant women do care for large gardens and can their own vegetables without a problem. These are the women who also stop their gardening long enough to give birth, then strap the infant to their backs and continue with their weeding. No husband needed to help except for the first part. You know the type.  Me? I wanted to eat, sleep, and throw up. All the time. What made me throw up the most? Certainly not two big hot dogs covered with relish, mustard and onions with a side of jalapeno peppers. It was tomatoes. Luscious, big red tomatoes.  Tiny sweet cherry tomatoes. Low-acid yellow tomatoes. Even looking through the kitchen window at them  made me sick. I could hardly  step into the back yard. I called the neighbors, who came with bushel baskets. They made plenty of salad, sauce and salsa. They offered to share, but thinking about that sauce bubbling away on their kitchen stoves made me want to throw up. I gave away tomatoes until nobody wanted any more. After that,  they rotted on the vines, plopping onto the ground. Smelling the warm, rotting tomatoes made me want to throw up. The birds had a field day.  The squirrels were in hog heaven. The following year, I had hundreds of “volunteer” tomato plants come up on their own.  Life is funny, though. One of my daughter’s favorite foods is tomatoes and her least favorite is hot dogs. Go figure.