I'm really bad with plants. In college, I once killed a cactus because I didn't water it enough. I've always really wanted to be good with plants, but it's never worked out. I think most plants want to scream and run away when they see me coming. Of course, they can't go anywhere. They're plants. All they can do is silently pray for their souls and hope their loved ones are well looked after. And then I kill them.
But for some reason, last spring I became wildly optimistic about my ability to grow some tomato plants in containers on the back deck.
Photo illustration of my wild optimism about tomato-growing:
At this very moment, there is a squirrel out there on the deck again. Seriously. As I reflect on this, I think maybe the universe sent the squirrels to help put the plants out of their misery and to let me know that I should never, ever try to grow plants again. Fine, universe. Fine. Fine!
So far I've gathered exactly one teeny, teeny tiny red tomato. It had fallen from the plant; perhaps a squirrel knocked it down and then felt guilty after a summer of wild tomato-ravaging so he left it for me. The tomato was probably the size of a jelly bean. I brought it inside, cut it in half, and WCK and I both feasted upon the bountiful harvest. Mmmmm.
I hope my child treasures this memory of eating home-grown food, because it's probably the only one she's going to have.