The babe and I picked the last of the tomatoes Friday morning. There are dozens more on the vine. They are optimistic that they will make it through tomorrow's cold snap. I am a little more cynical.
This has been my favorite growing season in my short life as a back yard farmer.
Mostly due to the "help."
It's been a lovely joint venture between the babe and I, to keep the garden up and growing. While I water, she puts her fingers in the stream from the hose and giggles wildly as the frigid water trickles down past her elbows and soaks her shirt and shoes. I pick the Early Girls and the Lemon Boys , she picks the baby Cherry Tomatoes...and eats them.
I've decided all of her clothes next summer must be in shades of tomato so as to camouflage the inevitable, delicious stains on her belly region.
After our extended stay in the garden, she was so tired (and distended,) that I laid her down for her nap...and then I did the most surprising thing. I made lunch...for me.
I don't usually prepare lunch, per say, except for The Girlie's lunches in the morning and The Babe's lunch meat, cheese, and fruit in the afternoon. When lunchtime rolls around, I have generally just finished cleaning up from breakfast, The Babe is napping, and I am enjoying a few moments digesting the day's blogs. Lunch for me, lately, consists of tracking down my woefully expired mug of no-longer-hot tea and a handful of goldfish.
But Friday, I beguiled myself with a tuna fish sandwich on the patio. The seductive roundness of my fresh, garden tomatoes were the inspiration for the afternoon tryst.
I sat in the sunshine, munching and musing about Slouching Mom 's Post
on the perils of sleep talking...when there came an unfortunate crunch. A bug of unknown color and distinction met his demise inside my mouth. The hazard of fresh, garden tomatoes.