Tomato Jungle

There is a day in May when planting 6 tomato plants in a really small space seems like an excellent idea. They don't look too close to each other when you plant them. They are so small and cute. You water them and take care of them and give them each a little tag with names like "Sun Glow," and "Beef Steak," and "Brandy Wine."

You can't fathom that the day might possibly come (sometime in August, for your future reference) when those little tags will disappear in a cascade of viney green and your little babies will be huge, gangly monsters. (But they are my monsters!) Robert suggests I cut back my precious plants, but I can't. At the same time, I don't know if I can harvest the tomatoes when the time finally comes. It's not wading through a dense jungle of tomato that seems daunting. I don't mind wading in tomato plants at all. In fact, I love wading through tomato plants. They smell so good.

The thing that makes me hesitate to get right in there and search the plants for red ripe, juicy tomatoes is a little something with eight legs, eight eyes and a web that I usually don't see until it's in my hair. (Did I mention there are lots of spiders on my tomatoes this year?)