When the dog star Sirius rises and sets with the sun over a roughly forty day period across July and August, the Greeks and Romans believed that with it came some of the hottest days of the year, full of potential disasters, drought, catastrophes, fevers and plague. As the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius is part of the constellation, Canis Major, and according to ancient lore, contributes to the sun's punishing, scorching nature during the months of July and August as it rises and sets alongside the sun. For farmers, and anyone who earns their living working outdoors, these months are hard, exhausting and challenging:
I did not truly comprehend — or at least I did not fully embody — the scope of the phrase "the dog days of summer" until I became a farmer. The sun is scorching with the heat and humidity almost unbearable once the sun is overhead by midday, making it hard to plant anything new during this period and still keep it alive. But the crops that you planted and established before the dog days, really before the summer solstice around June twentieth, thrive. This is the season of everyone's favorite crops: tomatoes, corn, sweet peppers, eggplant, watermelon, figs and peaches. This is the time when a lot of farmers make the bulk of their income for the entire year. Tomatoes are one of those crops that everyone craves and the farmer is able to sell at a decent price point. It's a good year for the farmer, it's a good year for me, if my tomato crop is absolutely overwhelming and I can't pick enough of them while I keep selling out of them at market. The heirloom tomatoes are coming in fast and furious, so now's a good time to remind you NOT to squeeze your tomatoes. The only thing squeezing your tomatoes will accomplish is to bruise them and ensure that they won't ripen evenly. A ripe tomato will not be soft, it will actually still be quite firm but the color will deepen and start to shine overall once fully ripe. That's how you know it is ready to eat. Alan Chadwick, founder of the Biodynamic French Intensive Method and one of the greatest horticulturists of the twentieth century (as declared by E.M. Schumacher) suggests that a fruit is only ripe for one fleeting moment — before that it is unripe, and after that it is overripe. This is why it is so rare that anyone knows what a tomato really tastes like. You have to be there. You can’t expect to buy it in a store.
Tomatoes: the debutante of summer, the grand dame of the garden, and the first, sweet love of my heart. An old friend, she is fussy, demanding, an attention seeker and drama queen. They are truly the epitome of Leo season and I don't think it is at all coincidental that this is when they thrive and produce the majority of their crop. Leo season is upon us now, and, like every year, I find myself absolutely inundated with tomatoes, not simply the sheer quantity of them, although I am picking some hundred-plus pounds of them every single day. Picking tomatoes is simply the taxing reward after months of grueling work to get them to this point, and even when you finally reach the pinnacle of their production, your time is still consumed with pruning and trellising and feeding them to prolong their harvest and stave off their inevitable decline and disease for as long as you possibly can.
A most peculiar and aggravating thought struck me as I'm kneeling in the tomato grove, picking these colorful jewels, sweat burning my eyes, mosquitoes feasting away, rashes breaking out across my arms: tomatoes are an awful lot of goddamn work. Are they really worth it? There is no dignity to be gained in the tomato patch. Though I tire of her demands and antics, I also know that come December I will miss her delicious vibrance dearly. And so I grow her and she grows me, some years we fall out, others we are the best of friends.
You might call the act of growing a tomato an exercise in patience, attention, love, growth. In all honesty, these past fifteen years, they've grown me far more than I them. Started as seeds in the dead of winter when the ground is frozen and I'm wearing a heavy sweater, sprouted weeks before spring arrives, tended carefully, awaiting the equinox and warmer climes, brought in and out, depending on the weather and how long winter creeps over into spring, coaxed and petted, until finally the moment arrives and you realize it is time to plant. And so you plant them, fertilize, trellis, prune, so much pruning! Tomatoes are a fussy one, taking umbrage at the slightest bit of ignoring. God help me if I even whisper the word neglect! What constant attention they need, all in an effort to ward off disease. Tomatoes require sunshine, you see, and an ample breeze, not too dry, nor too wet. Good God, what prima donnas they are! They are the stars of the show, the stars on everyone's plates and they know it. Are you beginning to see why I so closely relate them to Leo season?
Tomatoes all start off the same: small green baubles swaying gently in the wind, nestling among their mother's leaves. Slowly, they grow, fattening and elongating, until finally, they blush and come into their own. Some rot on the vine, some succumb to disease, some to pests. Carefully tended, they flourish, ripening into a rainbow of colors and tastes and sizes. Just when you're tired of all the work and pampering, they gently whisper, here you go. That gorgeous deep purple tomato that's rich and dark, the bright red Italian that tastes of pizza and acid, the golden jewels that drip sunshine. Every inch of their being shouts for attention and admiration: look at me, bow down and revel in my glory.
We humans are not so different (as we like to think!) from tomatoes: we come in all shapes and colors and flavors and sizes. We need sunshine and care and tending to develop into the best version of ourselves. Sometimes we get hit by hail or life throws a particularly nasty curve ball our way and it takes awhile to regroup and regrow. We suffer trauma and strife and setbacks but as long as we keep allowing the light to shine through, we can still ripen and thrive, turning into the most beautiful colors you could imagine, each individual unique and divine in their own right. It takes careful tending, care, and a hell of a lot of work. Pruning, shaping, nurturing, expanding and challenging each other along the way into the best damn beings you ever did see.
Years ago, early on in my farming journey, I had the best tomato year I'd ever had. The conditions that year had been absolutely perfect: the right amount of rain, temperatures consistently hot but not too hot, no calamitous storms or hail. I had also put in a lot of work, more work than I ever had before. Farming relies on a lot of very unreliable variables and some years you will simply lose a crop to these factors that are outside of your control but mostly, it comes down to work. That year I put in more work than I ever had before and I got a banner tomato crop. It's still up there in my top three tomato years of all time. Soon I was overwhelmed with tomatoes, picking them every single day. They were filling up every inch of my house and in addition to selling them I was freezing and canning as many as I could in all the spare time that I didn't have. Soon I became sick of tomatoes and began to curse them. I was overwhelmed, exhausted and I remember at one point, deep in the dog days of August, sobbing in the field because I was so tired of tomatoes. I never wanted to grow them again. That was the last banner tomato year I'd have for several years due to a combination of very rational factors: I was slightly burned out and wasn't giving them the time or attention they needed, the weather conditions weren't great, and I was putting my energy into other crops. But I missed all those tomatoes and I was absolutely convinced that I'd jinxed myself by daring to complain about such an abundance. The tomato gods had heard me and I'd never successfully grow tomatoes again until I did and I poured hours of work and spirit into them, giving me an even better crop than I'd ever experienced but I was older and slightly wiser now. Each year with tomatoes is so different, so challenging, often exactly what I don't want, but what I absolutely need.
My affinity for tomatoes is well known. I like to experiment with new varieties, still keeping around old favorites too. Colors spanning the entire spectrum, all shapes and sizes and flavors. Stewart begs me to winnow it down to just a few different types and I try, but every year somehow end up with at least a dozen (if I'm being honest, very often two or three dozen) varieties I'm growing. Every trellising system, planting, and pruning method has been tried by me, many successes, many failures, and in between so many delicious tomatoes.
I keep coming back to her, unable to walk away for very long. Perhaps it's that first bite of bruschetta and all the memories that come gushing back: of cobbled streets and wine and pizza, of happiness and youth, of Italy in the summer, sticky and bittersweet. Of flour and homemade pasta and red red sauce with garlic and onions and zucchini and those goddamn tomatoes, pulled fresh from the vine. I remember it all. She remembers it all, conjuring forth feelings and smells that make me happy and sad all at once. She's my first love, the first thing I ever grew as a child and the first thing I wanted to grow as a farmer. She's me, fussy and moody and colorful and a bundle of delicious contradictions. Wherever life carries me, however many other loves supplant this first, all it takes is a black cherry tomato popped into my mouth, fresh off the vine, sunlight starry heat still radiating to take me back. There I am: happy and at home.
xxxx Natalie
What we're eating
Tomato sandwiches, bruschetta, sauce, jam, pies, thick slices piled high, cherries squirting seeds and juice everywhere. And so I'll grumble and huff about all the work and so many tomatoes, but in the same breath I'll go inside at noon and declare that THIS is the best tomato sandwich I've ever had. For better or worse.
What We’re Growing
These Riñon Rippled Delight tomatoes might be my favorite thing coming off the field right now. We've been growing them for years and originally got the seed from one of my favorite businesses, Experimental Farm Network. These tomatoes are originally from Cuba and thrive in our hot and humid, subtropical climate. They are so prolific. We have about a hundred feet of them planted and the other morning I spent well over an hour picking them and nothing else and every time I walked back down the row, I found that there were still more to be picked. Their flavor is so sweet but not too acidic and when roasted, transforms into something even more heavenly.
watched a documentary on the tomato as well recently and just made me think, its amazing how Europe has become like THE place of the tomato yet they come from Mexico! i think that fact is sooo important in our understanding of its origin of course, its evolution, how its used, its flavors and so much more!
i find it very cool that you have bamboo growing wild on your property — (it’s a sign you need to grow tomatoes in all their incredibly needy glory!). well done finding / taking the time to write here, during your busiest and most exhausting weeks of farming. my sister also makes a living from her 2 acre garden and i am often out with her “frolicking with the lambs” or "languishing in the peas.” ;-) corn soon!