My Turn: Heirloom tomato made a backyard farmer out of me
Ellen Meister in her Jericho kitchen with an heirloom tomato from her first crop last year. Credit: Ellen Meister
Unlike many Long Islanders, I never had a hankering to be a backyard farmer. The idea of connecting with the earth just wasn’t in my blood.
That is, until last spring when I went out to lunch with a friend, and a server set down a plate that bore something magical — a glistening, tomato-like wedge that was a deep, saturated purple color. I plunged my fork into its slick flesh, lifted a bite drizzled with olive oil and a few crumbles of feta cheese, and deposited it in my mouth. Then, all at once, the skies parted, the angels sang, and I lost the power of speech.
“Gah!” I said to my friend.
“I know,” she replied, with an enigmatic smile.
That night, when I had regained my ability to form a coherent sentence, I described the experience to my husband in gushing detail. “It was practically religious,” I explained, “divine and familiar all at once.”
He nodded knowingly. “You ate an heirloom tomato.”
I grabbed his shirt by the collar. “Heirloom? Tell me more! Where can I find one? I need a supply!”
He explained I had simply eaten a tomato harvested from an ancient seed — one that predated the modern demand for a fruit that could withstand travel from farm to store to table. That breeding created a rugged red orb, but left flavor in the dirt.
That, I realized, was why there had been something familiar about the experience. I must have tasted this forbidden fruit in a former life. Or maybe as a kid I’d had a bite of my mom’s tuna sandwich.
In any case, there was now only one thing to do. “Grab the shovels,” I commanded, “we’re planting heirloom tomatoes!”
He said it wasn’t that easy. We had to pick the right spot — sunny enough for the plants to thrive, but away from foot traffic. We needed to build a border around the bed. We also needed gardening gloves, tomato cages, fertilizer and soil.
“Hold on,” I said, “we don’t need soil. There’s plenty of it in the backyard under the grass.”
When he explained we needed special soil, I thought it sounded ridiculous, but at least it would be inexpensive. After all, what could be cheaper than dirt?
Plenty of stuff, it turned out. For instance, store-bought heirloom tomatoes. In fact, once we were finished digging out our large garden bed, we discovered we needed $200 worth of soil.
“I may be a sucker,” I said to the garden center employee, “but I’m not spending $200 on dirt.”
As I swiveled to storm out, my husband reminded me of my divine moment with the purple heirloom. Suddenly, $200 didn’t seem like a lot of money. Only, who are we kidding? I wasn’t going to drop the cash without some comparison shopping.
So the next morning we went to BJ’s, loading up a handcart with bags and bags of nutrient-rich soil. As we exited the store, I mentally tallied what we had spent on this venture before even harvesting a single tomato. And that’s when I saw it — not one, not two, but three crisp $20 dollar bills blowing across the empty parking lot right toward me. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Was I meant to farm after all? To plunge my hands into the sweet earth, to coax nature’s bounty from her beneficence?
I stuffed the money into my pocket, feeling rich indeed. And that’s when my husband reminded me: We still had to buy the plants.
Ellen Meister,
Jericho
Unlike many Long Islanders, I never had a hankering to be a backyard farmer. The idea of connecting with the earth just wasn’t in my blood.
That is, until last spring when I went out to lunch with a friend, and a server set down a plate that bore something magical — a glistening, tomato-like wedge that was a deep, saturated purple color. I plunged my fork into its slick flesh, lifted a bite drizzled with olive oil and a few crumbles of feta cheese, and deposited it in my mouth. Then, all at once, the skies parted, the angels sang, and I lost the power of speech.
“Gah!” I said to my friend.
“I know,” she replied, with an enigmatic smile.
That night, when I had regained my ability to form a coherent sentence, I described the experience to my husband in gushing detail. “It was practically religious,” I explained, “divine and familiar all at once.”
He nodded knowingly. “You ate an heirloom tomato.”
I grabbed his shirt by the collar. “Heirloom? Tell me more! Where can I find one? I need a supply!”
He explained I had simply eaten a tomato harvested from an ancient seed — one that predated the modern demand for a fruit that could withstand travel from farm to store to table. That breeding created a rugged red orb, but left flavor in the dirt.
That, I realized, was why there had been something familiar about the experience. I must have tasted this forbidden fruit in a former life. Or maybe as a kid I’d had a bite of my mom’s tuna sandwich.
In any case, there was now only one thing to do. “Grab the shovels,” I commanded, “we’re planting heirloom tomatoes!”
He said it wasn’t that easy. We had to pick the right spot — sunny enough for the plants to thrive, but away from foot traffic. We needed to build a border around the bed. We also needed gardening gloves, tomato cages, fertilizer and soil.
“Hold on,” I said, “we don’t need soil. There’s plenty of it in the backyard under the grass.”
When he explained we needed special soil, I thought it sounded ridiculous, but at least it would be inexpensive. After all, what could be cheaper than dirt?
Plenty of stuff, it turned out. For instance, store-bought heirloom tomatoes. In fact, once we were finished digging out our large garden bed, we discovered we needed $200 worth of soil.
“I may be a sucker,” I said to the garden center employee, “but I’m not spending $200 on dirt.”
As I swiveled to storm out, my husband reminded me of my divine moment with the purple heirloom. Suddenly, $200 didn’t seem like a lot of money. Only, who are we kidding? I wasn’t going to drop the cash without some comparison shopping.
So the next morning we went to BJ’s, loading up a handcart with bags and bags of nutrient-rich soil. As we exited the store, I mentally tallied what we had spent on this venture before even harvesting a single tomato. And that’s when I saw it — not one, not two, but three crisp $20 dollar bills blowing across the empty parking lot right toward me. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Was I meant to farm after all? To plunge my hands into the sweet earth, to coax nature’s bounty from her beneficence?
I stuffed the money into my pocket, feeling rich indeed. And that’s when my husband reminded me: We still had to buy the plants.
Ellen Meister,
Jericho
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