I was real little. A hot summer’s day and I was supposedly “helping” in the garden. I wasn’t taller than the plants I was supposed to be tending. I was supposed to be weeding between the stately rows. The thick foliage was like a jungle to my small mind. The hard green tomatoes were as big as my fist. The smell was overwhelming. Thick and sweet. Heavy with loam and June’s thunder storms. The smell of green tomatoes was everywhere.
The large green caterpillars were monsters. As long as my hand. I knew they were harmless but they frightened my all the same. As the years phlashed past and my addiction to the smell of green tomatoes grew, my fear of those big bugs continued.
It has been years since I raised a crop of tomatoes. It has been years since I staked and pruned and tended and enjoyed.
My spring gardening goes well. A nice crop of green tomatoes grows in my tiny yard. Spring onions are being harvested. Capsicum and egg plants are doing well.
I recall the huge areas my parents tended to feed the family. All us kids were slave labour for the long and involved processes that started around easter and lasted until almost Thanksgiving. But the fruits and vegetables that were “put-up” lasted all winter and were a supreme luxury as the snows fell and the arctic winds blew.
And the smell of green tomatoes still works its magic.
And life is indeed good.