On Tomatoes

Freshly pruned and caged Russian Black tomatoes

It's hard to grow tomatoes here.  Really hard.  The average last freeze in April 15, which is long after the southern USA states have already planted out--so seedlings must be started indoors, on heat mats, when there is still snow on the ground outside.  By June, usually, the rains have stopped, but that's far too late to have the plants in the ground, so they must be planted out in late april underneath plastic, to keep the wet from giving them blight.  This year, it rained all June, so it's even harder than normal.  July and August are usually pretty dry, with September starting to threaten rain again---so late august and September is when we start to be able to harvest vine-ripened tomatoes, if we've done everything else right (see above).

This is why I built a greenhouse this year.

New Greenhouse! The automatic vents have opened in this picture, making a chimney effect and cooling the plants inside

It's too late this year, but next year I plan to have a crop of strong tomatoes in there.  The Russian Blacks that I'm growing now have proven to be the most vigorous, beautiful tomato plants that I've ever started--I hope that they set fruit, and that it's good.  If so, I'll be growing them in the warmth next year.  Without the greenhouse, I have to cover them if there is a chance of rain, which I just did now.  Don't take a vacation if you want tomatoes in the Northwest.

Feeding and watering is an issue, too.  You can't feed tomatoes too much, or else they don't flower.  But you can't underfeed them, or else the fruits are small.  Moreover, they need specific minerals to avoid blossom end-rot and leaf yellowing.

But all that work and worry is worth it, even if I only get one tomato.  Even just one.  Why?  Because those round red things in the supermarkets are hybrid atrocities---without flavor, and grown without care or purpose other than profit.

I'd rather live in a world where I can enjoy one real tomato that I've nourished from seed in my garden each summer, than a pile of hybrids grown anonymously and shipped 500 miles.  I'm a locavore, an atheist, a scientist, and a fool: give me good things nearby, the truth, and silliness, and I'll be just fine.