This week I have harvested at least, at least, eighteen tomatoes. Move over Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall.
Our garden is a funny triangular shape, and a hostile environment for plants. It is 80% car parking space (nice victorian pavers rescued from my parents garden mind) and 20% low maintenance astro turf (sorry bees). It has a hedge running down one side (phew) and a garden fence along the other.
There is however, a small space behind the gate that houses a table, a few chairs and this summer, two rectangular tubs.
Last year, these tubs lived on a wall. I’d planted them with a few grasses which I thought would grow up to cover some guttering, and ivy which I thought would grow down in a romantic trailing situation to add some much needed greenery into our basement terrace. Neither plan came to fruition.
So in May, I moved them to the aforementioned spot. I weaved (?!) an elaborate wire trellis along our fence and planted three tomato plants in one, and three green bean plants in the other. The success of the green beans is questionable, but those three tomatoes plants have now sustained me for at least three snacks. Incredible.
So what has great 2023 tomato success taught me?
Moving the position and purpose of the tubs meant one dramatic failure has lead to a moderate success.
If you want to do something, just do it, no matter how small it feels. My mum has four big raised beds, my brother has an allotment, my two tubs seem pretty pitiful in comparison. But comparison is the thief of joy, and in this case action.
Planting is about believing in the future, after all the day you plant the seed is not the day you eat the fruit.
Checking on plant progress is a slow, therapeutic and highly addictive activity.
Food you’ve grown tastes sweeter.
The ‘e’ in tomatoes is continually surprising.
Right, I’m off to check if we’ve got enough tomatoes to sprinkle atop my lunchtime salad. There is absolutely no danger of me being self-sufficient anytime soon.