I planted a tomatillo seed.
Actually I planted 15 of them. Five have survived to adulthood.
Two are now carving a life out for themselves in the sweltering
humidity of north Alabama. Apparently they are loving it there as reports
continue to surface that they have bunches of husks popping up, readying
themselves for tomatillo glory.
Three survive here with me in northern Florida. “Survive” being the key
word since they certainly aren’t busy tomatillo-ing it. Oh, they are huge and
sprawling and very artistically branched. They even are prettily dotted with
little yellow blooms all over the place. Yes, they are beautiful.
However…
*cue the violin*
Between all of their fine branches and sculptural stems only one, lone,
solitary tomatillo has been born. And yesterday she was ready to be picked.
So picked her I did.
She now sits on my kitchen table, neither of us knowing quite what to
do with her now that she is here.
What does one do with a single tomatillo?... (Hey, wouldn’t that make a
great title for a children’s story? I can see the illustrations now. We could
call her Tituba and give her a backstory full of… * dog growls at me in warning*… Pardon, the author in me was
showing again. And the very last thing this author needs is to start another
project. So, as you were, everyone. Carry on.)
Bottom line: my tomatillo plants are barren once again.
Beautiful but barren.
*sighs heartily*
Perhaps my uterus-less-ness has carried over into the tomatillo patch?
I bet there’s a scientific study to be had there. The effect of hysterectomies
on husked plants.
I’ll notify Harvard right after I work out Tituba’s sordid past.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
No comments:
Post a Comment