An Open Letter to My New Tomato Plant

Hey! Hi there. Welcome.

Don’t be alarmed! I’m Scott, and you? Well, you’re my new tomato plant!

I’m excited you’re here.

I know we’re not supposed to plant gardens until after the Kentucky Derby around here, but I just couldn’t wait to get you in a pot. Heck, I built a whole weekend around you. Saturday, I got the whole family in the car and drove out to the nice farm to buy a tomato plant. They were having a whole big tomato thing that day—selling tomato plants, of course, but also serving grilled cheese and tomato soup—even tomato martinis!

(You can have a martini at 11am if there’s tomato in it. That’s how special tomatoes are!)

I’m excited to have you here. You see, you’re not just a plant on my patio—you’re a symbol. A symbol of progress. This summer, I’m committing myself to keeping you alive and healthy enough to produce a bumper crop of delicious heirloom tomatoes all summer long. That’s not just a plan—that’s a sign that I believe in myself.

(I don’t believe in myself enough to start you from seed, though.)

(It’s important to know your limitations.)

You and me? We’re going to work together. In fact, I’m already doing my part. I bought you this nice new pot, filled it with dirt—not just any dirt, store-bought dirt—and I’ve already watered you twice. I’m killing it. I’m basically a homesteader, albeit one who had a Costco rotisserie chicken for dinner last night.

(Homesteading is a process, okay?)

I expect you to do your part too, though.

I’m counting on you to deliver week after week of delicious, organic, hyperlocal, farm-to-table tomatoes. Tomatoes that will feature heavily in the summer meals I serve my family. You’re going to be in Caprese salads. Margarita pizzas. BLT sandwiches. You’re going to give a veneer of healthy living to all sorts of cheese-and/or-bacon-based meals. I’m not having mayonnaise for dinner, I’m having tomatoes for dinner.

(Mayonnaise just goes really well with tomatoes. Everyone knows that.)

You role goes beyond the strictly culinary, though. You’re going to make my hands smell like a fancy candle. Did you know that’s a thing now? It’s true! They sell candles that smell just like your vines, and people pay a lot of money for them. Heck, I paid a lot of money for one at the farm where I bought you.

(It seemed like a good idea after two tomato martinis.)

Point is, you’re going to give my whole farm—no, it’s this isn’t just a suburban house anymore, it’s a small farm, both for Instagram and tax purposes—tremendous rustic vibes. When people come into my backyard, they’re going to see you, and they’re going to think, “wow, this guy’s basically a farmer”. They’ll be drawn to see it, drawnn to see you. It’s going to be like Field of Dreams, but my dipshit brother-in-law Timothy Busfield will be proud of me the whole time, instead of just reluctantly accepting at the very end when the baseball ghosts show up.

I won’t need baseball ghosts, because I’ll have you.

Now, listen.

You may have heard some things. I’m not sure how, mind you—you are a plant—but rumors spread, y’know? It’s possible that someone—the hostas, the dog, my nosy neighbor Barb—told you that you’re not my first tomato plant. They might’ve said that I actually planted a full garden a couple of years ago in a fit of pandemic-fueled mania. They might tell you that I had a couple good years of scrupulous tending to it, but that I eventually lost interest and let the whole thing rot. They’ll claim that there was just a bare patch in the yard for a while, a monument to my previous gardening failures just out there mocking me until I hired a guy to put some sod over it like I was covering up an unmarked grave. That there’s a chance you’re just my next innocent victim.

Those people are liars, Tommy.

(Can I call you Tommy? I feel like we already know each other so well.)

I want to be clear: I have never had a tomato plant before, and I certainly have never killed one through neglect and disinterest. Even if I had, though, I would be a changed person by now.

(I didn’t, though.)

(Barb is a liar.)

I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to water you every night, but I’m also going to enlist backup. I’m going to get my kids to water you. (It’s an important skill for them to learn if they want to take over the family farm someday.) When I go on vacation this summer, I’ll even ask neighbor friends to water you.

I am going to make you everyone’s problem.

I’m also going to defend you. I’ve already put you in a nice, sturdy, twelve-dollar pot. That’ll keep you safe from moles and stuff, but I know larger threats loom. I am going to be vigilant about squirrels. I am going to watch them like a hawk. I am going to form an intense and possibly-unhealthy personal rivalry with one squirrel in particular, the one I call Shady Pete. I hate Shady Pete.

I am going to put up a small fence around you that will ruin your aesthetic appeal, but that’ll just let everyone know that I’m not in it for the ‘gram, I’m in it for the tomatoes.

You’re important to me.

I need you to know that. You’re going to help me keep it all together this summer. You see, things are a little crazy right now. I don’t really want to get into the specifics. That’s partly because they stress me out, but also because you’re a tomato plant and I don’t think you’ll understand.

(No offense. I know you’re supposed to talk to your plants but I don’t think they meant recounting things from the evening news, especially when all the news is this bad.)

Just understand that I’m putting a lot of emotional weight on you, okay? That’s why I bought you this nice tomato cage. It’ll support you, and then you support me. Now, if you’ll just start growing, I’m gonna head inside and get some bacon going. I’ve got a healthy dinner planned for us tonight.

Fresh from the garden!

—Scott Hines (@actioncookbook)

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