Well, I guess it had to happen eventually...I now have a garden: the ultimate sign of settled-down, salad days, nothing-to-see-here domestication. I never thought it would happen to me, readers, but there you have it. Rather than indulge in a devil-may-care, I'll-go-buy-some-if-I-want-'em attitude towards tomoatoes, I am now engaging in the decidedly less instant gratification-minded approach. I now sit back and patiently anticipate the pay-off for an afternoon of hard work, and if that isn't the most ardent sign of being a grown up I don't know what is.
Incidentally, as you can see I am trying out a suggestion given to me by my father-in-law (another sign of adulthood: taking advice from one's in-laws...or even having in-laws...), I planted my tomatoes in a bale of hay. Supposedly this is a good way to get extra tasty tomatoes if you don't have very good ground soil (our ground soil sucks-- it's weirdly sandy for Kentucky dirt). Well, I hope so, because it was a bitch-and-a-half digging a hole in a bale of hay, I can tell you.
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