Promise and Resolution...
It was with subdued sadness that I made my way out into the garden this morning. I knew the end was near. I've known it for about a week now. The first telltale signs of autumn die off. My tomato plants were no longer yielding the summer's bounty, and were stressed to the limits of their production. They had made a few feeble attempts to gain my respect in small, but still hard, green fruit. This saddens me. I am no longer full of morning anticipation. This morning I was full of dread, knowing this would be the day.
Gardening shears in hand, I trudged my way to what was once my bountiful garden. It was with care and resolution that I meticulously plucked the last remaining fruit from the vine. As I pulled and tugged, I watched and I listened to the air around me. Something has changed, and the morning sounds are unfamiliar to me now. The tomatoes, now gathered, sit huddled on the back deck, reaching for sunlight and that last stolen breath of fresh, humid air.
I haven't decided what I will do with them yet. Although, I feel it must be something quite monumental, or not at all. They deserve at least that much. I am leaning towards fried green tomatoes. So far this summer, I have been fortunate enough to garner fresh ripe bites of their swollen red, goodness. I have dressed them with hand plucked basil, home made garlic butter, rosemary, and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese atop a bed of steaming hot pasta. I have included thick slices into my fried egg and BLT sandwiches. I have made homemade salsa, and it was good. I have done everything with the tomato that one can customarily do, and yet I am saddened.
Why? Because, for the first time in many years, I have developed hope. I planted, I watered, and I nurtured them in the hopes that I would be here long enough to reap the benefits of my labor. Benefits reaped, I can now summarize that this, may indeed, be what I refer to in the future, as "home." Somewhat settled, I can finally exhale and realize that this, new and strange that it still may be to me, is now my home. Our home. And yet, I still feel so far away.
Gardening shears in hand, I trudged my way to what was once my bountiful garden. It was with care and resolution that I meticulously plucked the last remaining fruit from the vine. As I pulled and tugged, I watched and I listened to the air around me. Something has changed, and the morning sounds are unfamiliar to me now. The tomatoes, now gathered, sit huddled on the back deck, reaching for sunlight and that last stolen breath of fresh, humid air.
I haven't decided what I will do with them yet. Although, I feel it must be something quite monumental, or not at all. They deserve at least that much. I am leaning towards fried green tomatoes. So far this summer, I have been fortunate enough to garner fresh ripe bites of their swollen red, goodness. I have dressed them with hand plucked basil, home made garlic butter, rosemary, and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese atop a bed of steaming hot pasta. I have included thick slices into my fried egg and BLT sandwiches. I have made homemade salsa, and it was good. I have done everything with the tomato that one can customarily do, and yet I am saddened.
Why? Because, for the first time in many years, I have developed hope. I planted, I watered, and I nurtured them in the hopes that I would be here long enough to reap the benefits of my labor. Benefits reaped, I can now summarize that this, may indeed, be what I refer to in the future, as "home." Somewhat settled, I can finally exhale and realize that this, new and strange that it still may be to me, is now my home. Our home. And yet, I still feel so far away.