We have had a couple of cherry tomatoes off our plants in the hoop house. I ate the first one all by myself because I’m like the little red hen and nobody helped me grow it, SO THERE. Ethan and I split the second on Monday.
Okay, that one statement about nobody helping me is patently untrue. Greg has helped me tremendously but he hates raw tomatoes (I know, weird, right?) so he’s not likely to stomp around and sulk about me hogging that first cherry tomato. Laurel helped plant several of those plants but she’s out at the Joseph Baldwin Academy so she’s out of luck for three weeks.
This morning I procured this little gem, the first of the “full-sized” tomatoes:
Now, normally I’d have left it on another day or two, but when I reached down to inspect it, it just fell into my hand. Far be it from me to make any bald accusations, but I did point it out to Ethan yesterday, and he does have a habit of touching anything he finds interesting despite my very-plain-and-clear-worded instructions not to do that with my tomatoes. I can forgive it if he manhandled it because, well, his fascination with such things is quite endearing.
And the truth is, it might not be his fault at all. That tomato may have just become bored with being the only ripening one amongst its green brothers and sisters and decided to just come on in. I imagine the conversation in the house is more lively than in the garden, anyway.