In two weeks my mother is coming to visit for a month. I've been daydreaming about us having fresh tomatoes, fresh, homemade mozzarella cheese, homemade bread, fresh basil clipped off the plant. Bruschetta, caprese salad, pesto. There's one problem with my dreams. The chances of my tomato plants that I nurtured from seed making actual tomatoes while my mother is still here are vanishingly close to zero.
So I'm going to cheat. Actually, I've already cheated. I've been keeping an eye open for tomato plants that are farther along than the ones I birthed, and found some today at my almost-daily trip to a home improvement store. This little guy has blossoms, and already has a small fruit making his way into the world. Now he's first in my small pantheon of tomato makers.
When (not if) this guy makes some big red ones, I'm going to pluck one of them, and while it's still warm from the sun, I'm going to slice it and put it on a piece of white bread with some mayo. If it tastes good, I'll congratulate myself for being brilliant. Selfish, but brilliant. If it tastes like warm cardboard on white bread, I'll say I deserved it for trying to cheat. Or maybe I'll feed it to mom first like any good hostess (and daughter) would do, and let her be the judge.
A high school friend is coming to visit for part of next weekend (Linda, who writes the blog Multilocus) and I'm pretty psyched to see her and catch up face to face. I don't think there's any way to have ripe tomatoes by then though!
O Glorious Sunday!
1 hour ago