Whadda Tomato

(That's what my Dad once told me boys used to say in admiration about a particularly lovely girl.)

When all 124 tomato plants started showing signs of blight for the third or fourth year in a row, I resigned myself to no tomatoes.  That way, any tomatoes we received, no matter how few, would be a pleasant surprise.

God was gracious, and in spite of blight, these half-dead and dying plants gave (and are giving) us enough tomatoes to gobble to our heart's content and to can for winter sauces and curries.  I am GLAD to have a kitchen stuffed with tomatoes, GLAD to trip over the annoying things in the night, GLAD to have fruit flies swarming through the kitchen when they find tomatoes with bad spots.  Really, I am.  For the last several years, we haven't harvested enough tomatoes from our garden for canning, and most of those I stuffed into jars were from the generosity of others.

So these pictures are doubly wonderful.

Susie was picking out a tomato to munch on here.  Note: she had already stuffed one in her pocket.

About six dozen of our plants were started from seed indoors, and I'm really pleased with the Amish paste tomatoes.  So pleased, in fact, that I asked them to form a chorus line with greenhouse-purchased romas for comparison.  As you can see, the Amish paste tomatoes are huge.  They fill jars much more quickly. (They can also kick their legs higher in the chorus line.)

Plus, it's a joy to heft them in one's hands.

All that green?  WEEDS.  All that red?  TOMATOES.

What would I do without this muscular sidekick? (Hey, he tried.)