At the beginning of 2009, I had a vision for the year. Not a resolution exactly, but more like a creative inspiration. Books like Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver, Camille Kingsolver and Steven L. Hopp and Edible School Yard: A Universal Idea by Alice Waters inspired me as I perused seed catalogs and contemplated wire cages versus stakes. When I traveled, I made it a point to seek out seeds not available in my area. By the hundreds (yes hundreds) I started seeds indoors, faithfully taking them out each day for sun and bringing them in each night to protect them from late frost. I asked others which varieties grew best for them. I started seeds for friends who don't even garden and pushed off tomato seedlings like kittens from an unexpected litter. In short, I was going to be a tomato goddess.
The Salinas Valley is sometimes referred to as the "Salad Bowl of the World." If this figurative salad is homegrown, it may or may not contain tomatoes, depending upon where on the Central Coast you live. One of the features of living on the Monterey Peninsula that makes it so amenable is its microclimates. The diversity in microclimates means that there is a location for many different tastes. I, for example, really like to see the sun and happily my home situated in a little sun belt. It was this sunbelt location that made me think I could grow tomatoes, despite my home's location so near the ocean.
Early Girl encouraged my Dad. San Francisco Fog suggested a colleague. By the time Spring Break came about, I fretted about leaving on vacation because my plants might suffer. In September my dad inspected my plants which had grown to impressive heights, blossomed and set fruit yet not yielded a single ripe tomato. "Hold back on the watering" was his only suggestion. Later that month I broke down and accompanied friends to a tomato U-pick event at Mariquita Farm, just to satisfy my craving for that bright, happy flavor.
By October I gave in, regularly buying dry farmed Early Girl tomatoes from a local Farmers' Market. I was only slightly consoled when the vendor assured me that 2009 had been horrendous for tomatoes. Perhaps my dearth of homegrown tomatoes wasn't karma from that botany degree I earned but never really used. I used her comment as permission to neglect my own plants. After all, season's end was coming.
One of the things that locals on the Central Coast can feel revel in is the opportunity to be sleeveless during the Winter holiday season. Sure we get frost and rain, but it is pretty common to see locals in their shirtsleeves and flip flops among the bundled up tourists in places like Cannery Row. I once lived in Minnesota, and after growing up here I will never take flip flops in December for granted again.
On January 1st I paused and surveyed the effect of the neglect that set in during the Fall. At first glance my yard looked like a graveyard of dried tomato plants with withered leaves and bent stalks. A closer look however revealed a surprise. The unexpected harvest was just a small handful of ugly, tiny tomatoes with exactly the flavor I had hoped for a Winter earlier. True, it wasn't the harvest I expected, but it was there, even after I had given up hope.
Was 2009 less than the year you envisioned as the calendar rolled over from 2008? Were you, like me, able to mine some small solace from an otherwise less than stellar reality? If so, you are not alone. Regardless, Happy New Year to you and all the unexpected yields that are to come.
One of the things that locals on the Central Coast can feel revel in is the opportunity to be sleeveless during the Winter holiday season. Sure we get frost and rain, but it is pretty common to see locals in their shirtsleeves and flip flops among the bundled up tourists in places like Cannery Row. I once lived in Minnesota, and after growing up here I will never take flip flops in December for granted again.
On January 1st I paused and surveyed the effect of the neglect that set in during the Fall. At first glance my yard looked like a graveyard of dried tomato plants with withered leaves and bent stalks. A closer look however revealed a surprise. The unexpected harvest was just a small handful of ugly, tiny tomatoes with exactly the flavor I had hoped for a Winter earlier. True, it wasn't the harvest I expected, but it was there, even after I had given up hope.
Was 2009 less than the year you envisioned as the calendar rolled over from 2008? Were you, like me, able to mine some small solace from an otherwise less than stellar reality? If so, you are not alone. Regardless, Happy New Year to you and all the unexpected yields that are to come.
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