Potential Lives in A Cherry Tomato

By Brynne Spencer

I’ve been dreaming about a tomato party. All my friends on my porch, late August, eating all the tomatoes I’ve grown over the summer. I am dreaming of tomatoes in salads and cold soup, reduced to sweet jam, caprese with local cheese and basil from my windowsill.. Tomatoes on slices of crusty bread, in martinis, coated in grassy oil in little bowls glowing like pearls of fire. Warm tomatoes, chilled tomatoes, blistered and charred tomatoes. Fresh tomatoes the size of a fist bursting with purple and red stripes, crisp green ones that taste like springwater, tomatoes the size of a fingernail that somehow contain as much sweetness as a strawberry in May. 

This year, I think I have planted more tomatoes than any person could know what to do with. In the past, our west-facing porch has obliterated all other attempts to grow peppers, peas, flowers, and alliums. The one or two tomatoes I plant each year have reigned supreme, happily growing to monstrous sizes under the sun’s direct glare. Now, it is the first week of May and the porch is once again lined with pots full of hopeful young contenders. This time, eleven and counting varieties of tomatoes. There are the paste kind for canning, little ones, the kind that yield bright beads of acid in long strings, the heirloom kind that swell to such alarming sizes one wonders how the plant isn’t dragged out of the pot by the weight of the fruit, and the kind that won’t make it the ten feet to the kitchen because they demand to be eaten warm and in the sun with a crack of pepper or nothing at all right now. Mostly though, I have no idea what I’ve planted. 

My careful research about the best varieties and their specific needs was moot. I walked confidently up to the seedling booths at the farmers market–and saw very few things I recognized. Instead were rows of almost indistinguishable local varieties with colorful names like “Solar Flare” or “Pink Barry”. 

Ah, well. Part of what makes gardening enjoyable is the mystery of it. You never know if what you plant is going to survive. It will be fun to find out what some of these local varieties are the hard way.  So the plan went out the window and the plants went in the basket. Unfortunately, as soon as I took a sharp turn the bike basket holding my precious tomatoes went on the ground. All the fragile seedlings landed facedown on the pavement in an explosion of soil and roots. I have no idea how there was so much dirt on the concrete, it seemed impossible for it to all come from the tiny buckets of the plant starters. Several kind people stopped to help me as I tried to quickly shovel the good soil back into the pots and do triage on all the plants in the middle of the bike lane. I am happy to say everyone was okay, although the popsicle sticks indicating the variety of every plant were hopelessly jumbled. Looking at all the plants and trying to remember the name each belonged to felt like trying to remember specific facts about the individuals in a group of men all named John. Eventually, I gave up and just stuck the nametags in my bag and pedaled away before I caused a traffic incident. 

The tomato excitement is infectious. The other day, one of our cooks crashed into the kitchen with her usual bustle and irresistible good humor, and asked me if I would like a plant. How could I say no? I was expecting a sad houseplant that needed a new home. From behind her back she proudly produced a tiny tomato seedling in a soup can painted blue with red hearts. Apparently, a woman in her car had been passing out seedlings from her open window at a stoplight.

My coworker had no idea what kind of tomato it was, the light changed before questions could be asked, and our tomato saint drove away- presumably to continue spreading tomato goodwill. We puzzled over what variety it could be, and I asked my tomato provider at the market, giving the description of the seedling like a missing person’s report. Dark green plant with a hairy stalk and diamond sawtooth leaves with a blush of purple-red on the undersides. Not much to go off of. The grower said that sometimes the purple varieties have purple coloring on the leaves and stalk. I promised that when it fruited I would bring one to the market so we could compare it to other varieties. Whatever it is, I am glad the universe conspired to bring this little guy to me. Whoever painted that soup can clearly put a lot of joy into it, and I will be loath to re-pot it eventually. For now though, this unknown quantity seems happy next to its new, equally unknowable, siblings. 

I will be eagerly checking to see what kind of fruit we will get, and who will turn out to be what. Whatever kind of fruits we get though, this will probably be a lot of tomatoes. The plants look healthy, and some already need to be staked. Based on this and the yields of the last few years, I am optimistic. Even between three avid tomato lovers and a BLT champion, there will likely be more than we can use. I will certainly process some for later use, but the best thing to do is share. I am looking forward to giving away some of this harvest. Most of my friends are lucky if they have the space to grow mint on a windowsill. There are fantastic farmers markets and several community gardens, but the vast majority of the food we eat comes from grocery stores. It feels good to break away from the dependency on them even in the smallest way. Hence, a tomato party. I don’t know which of these plants are determinate or indeterminate- as in if the fruit will ripen fruit by fruit or all at once. It is probably a bit of both. Either way, a gathering seems like a great way to share the abundance of harvest and care for the ones I care about. I am coming to realize that gardening is a holy grail hobby of anyone whose love languages are acts of service and gift giving. A handful of homegrown tomatoes or a meal served on the patio says, “here, I grew this from the ground to nourish me and you. I toiled to create this because I want us to be well fed. Because I care”. 

Besides, no supermarket tomato will ever taste as good as a home grown one. I remember picking tomatoes off the vine as a kid. We would eat them unwashed with salt and pepper. The tomatoes were sweet and acidic, with the aroma of the leaves clinging to the soft, slightly powdery skin. I cannot wait to recreate that memory. 

Now, you may say it sounds like I am both putting my eggs in one basket and counting my chickens before they hatch. I am cutting the mozzarella for my caprese before the tomatoes are a twinkle in a pollinator’s eye. (Note to self: explore the possible definitions of a ‘mind salad’ in another essay.) I probably am. I do have a few other things in the works, but more on that another time. I believe in looking forward to things. There is always a chance for things to go wrong. The westering sun might scorch even the tomatoes on my porch this year. The plants might choose to invest their energy in leaves and roots instead of fruits and the harvest might be small. Maybe no one will come to my tomato party. 

What matters is the potential. There is always potential for disaster, especially in the garden. But with everything I have planted, every tomato, there is the potential for growth, for abundance, for joy, wonder, connection. Each plant has the potential to feed the one who planted it, even in a small way. Each plant has the possibility to bring people together over a meal. Every tomato has the potential to multiply those possibilities exponentially with every seed it holds inside it. All it needs is someone to plant it, water it, care for it. All potential needs is someone willing to find out.