My Turn: Heirloom tomato made a backyard farmer out of me
Ellen Meister in her Jericho kitchen with an heirloom tomato from her first crop last year. Credit: Ellen Meister
Unlike many Long Islanders, I never had a hankering to be a backyard farmer. The idea of connecting with the earth just wasn’t in my blood.
That is, until last spring when I went out to lunch with a friend, and a server set down a plate that bore something magical — a glistening, tomato-like wedge that was a deep, saturated purple color. I plunged my fork into its slick flesh, lifted a bite drizzled with olive oil and a few crumbles of feta cheese, and deposited it in my mouth. Then, all at once, the skies parted, the angels sang, and I lost the power of speech.
“Gah!” I said to my friend.
“I know,” she replied, with an enigmatic smile.
That night, when I had regained my ability to form a coherent sentence, I described the experience to my husband in gushing detail. “It was practically religious,” I explained, “divine and familiar all at once.”
He nodded knowingly. “You ate an heirloom tomato.”
I grabbed his shirt by the collar. “Heirloom? Tell me more! Where can I find one? I need a supply!”
He explained I had simply eaten a tomato harvested from an ancient seed — one that predated the modern demand for a fruit that could withstand travel from farm to store to table. That breeding created a rugged red orb, but left flavor in the dirt.
That, I realized, was why there had been something familiar about the experience. I must have tasted this forbidden fruit in a former life. Or maybe as a kid I’d had a bite of my mom’s tuna sandwich.
In any case, there was now only one thing to do. “Grab the shovels,” I commanded, “we’re planting heirloom tomatoes!”
He said it wasn’t that easy. We had to pick the right spot — sunny enough for the plants to thrive, but away from foot traffic. We needed to build a border around the bed. We also needed gardening gloves, tomato cages, fertilizer and soil.
“Hold on,” I said, “we don’t need soil. There’s plenty of it in the backyard under the grass.”
When he explained we needed special soil, I thought it sounded ridiculous, but at least it would be inexpensive. After all, what could be cheaper than dirt?
Plenty of stuff, it turned out. For instance, store-bought heirloom tomatoes. In fact, once we were finished digging out our large garden bed, we discovered we needed $200 worth of soil.
“I may be a sucker,” I said to the garden center employee, “but I’m not spending $200 on dirt.”
As I swiveled to storm out, my husband reminded me of my divine moment with the purple heirloom. Suddenly, $200 didn’t seem like a lot of money. Only, who are we kidding? I wasn’t going to drop the cash without some comparison shopping.
So the next morning we went to BJ’s, loading up a handcart with bags and bags of nutrient-rich soil. As we exited the store, I mentally tallied what we had spent on this venture before even harvesting a single tomato. And that’s when I saw it — not one, not two, but three crisp $20 dollar bills blowing across the empty parking lot right toward me. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Was I meant to farm after all? To plunge my hands into the sweet earth, to coax nature’s bounty from her beneficence?
I stuffed the money into my pocket, feeling rich indeed. And that’s when my husband reminded me: We still had to buy the plants.
Ellen Meister,
Jericho
Unlike many Long Islanders, I never had a hankering to be a backyard farmer. The idea of connecting with the earth just wasn’t in my blood.
That is, until last spring when I went out to lunch with a friend, and a server set down a plate that bore something magical — a glistening, tomato-like wedge that was a deep, saturated purple color. I plunged my fork into its slick flesh, lifted a bite drizzled with olive oil and a few crumbles of feta cheese, and deposited it in my mouth. Then, all at once, the skies parted, the angels sang, and I lost the power of speech.
“Gah!” I said to my friend.
“I know,” she replied, with an enigmatic smile.
That night, when I had regained my ability to form a coherent sentence, I described the experience to my husband in gushing detail. “It was practically religious,” I explained, “divine and familiar all at once.”
He nodded knowingly. “You ate an heirloom tomato.”
I grabbed his shirt by the collar. “Heirloom? Tell me more! Where can I find one? I need a supply!”
He explained I had simply eaten a tomato harvested from an ancient seed — one that predated the modern demand for a fruit that could withstand travel from farm to store to table. That breeding created a rugged red orb, but left flavor in the dirt.
That, I realized, was why there had been something familiar about the experience. I must have tasted this forbidden fruit in a former life. Or maybe as a kid I’d had a bite of my mom’s tuna sandwich.
In any case, there was now only one thing to do. “Grab the shovels,” I commanded, “we’re planting heirloom tomatoes!”
He said it wasn’t that easy. We had to pick the right spot — sunny enough for the plants to thrive, but away from foot traffic. We needed to build a border around the bed. We also needed gardening gloves, tomato cages, fertilizer and soil.
“Hold on,” I said, “we don’t need soil. There’s plenty of it in the backyard under the grass.”
When he explained we needed special soil, I thought it sounded ridiculous, but at least it would be inexpensive. After all, what could be cheaper than dirt?
Plenty of stuff, it turned out. For instance, store-bought heirloom tomatoes. In fact, once we were finished digging out our large garden bed, we discovered we needed $200 worth of soil.
“I may be a sucker,” I said to the garden center employee, “but I’m not spending $200 on dirt.”
As I swiveled to storm out, my husband reminded me of my divine moment with the purple heirloom. Suddenly, $200 didn’t seem like a lot of money. Only, who are we kidding? I wasn’t going to drop the cash without some comparison shopping.
So the next morning we went to BJ’s, loading up a handcart with bags and bags of nutrient-rich soil. As we exited the store, I mentally tallied what we had spent on this venture before even harvesting a single tomato. And that’s when I saw it — not one, not two, but three crisp $20 dollar bills blowing across the empty parking lot right toward me. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Was I meant to farm after all? To plunge my hands into the sweet earth, to coax nature’s bounty from her beneficence?
I stuffed the money into my pocket, feeling rich indeed. And that’s when my husband reminded me: We still had to buy the plants.
Ellen Meister,
Jericho
YOUR STORY Letters and essays for My Turn are original works (of up to 600 words) by readers that have never appeared in print or online. Share special memories, traditions, friendships, life-changing decisions, observations of life or unforgettable moments for possible publication. Email act2@newsday.com. Include name, address, phone numbers and photos if available. Edited stories may be republished in any format.
