And so, now, the world turns. What began as a weakling plant amid a thousand others on temporary shelves in a tent thrown up purposely for the task of selling such plant starters; what slowly grew--now and then a little helpful watering--nursed along by our devoted vigilance; what made us fret through withering summer days with little rain; what required the kind of weeding that made us cuss, once more, at Adam and Eve; what started out so lowly and fragile has grown into a giant bearing shot puts that fill up our kitchen counters. We've gone from dreaming about BLTs to rolling our eyes. Happens every August.
Soon enough, it'll be salsa, then spaghetti sauce. Meanwhile, I'll down cherry tomatoes one after another, like candy, until enthusiasm wanes and the remnants are left outside clinging piteously to aged abandoned vines. It's harvest time with the tomatoes. In the next few days we'll have so many we won't know what to do with them.
Next year, fewer plants, I'll tell myself, and next year, late May, back in the plants tent, I won't be able to help myself. I'll plant as many those garden boxes will hold, and the whole blessed ritual will begin anew.
Anyway, this morning's thanks are for yesterday's harvest. Right now they're as beautiful as they are abundant--as tomorrow's and the next day's and the next, and etc.
When it rains, it pours. Please pass the bacon.
No comments:
Post a Comment