By Pableaux Johnson

“Sooooooo‚Ķ” My older sister Charlotte always starts off this way.

Even though it was early spring and months away from tomato season, I had been expecting this call since Christmas. My sister, a dedicated gardener, had already started planning for summer. “It’s almost time. Choose your plants yet?”

At this same time last year, I was neck deep in tomato books, seed catalogs and botanical encyclopedias. I was crawling the Internet in search of digitized old wives’ tales and poring over up-to-date research on heat resistant horticulture. I consulted every neighbor with dirty fingernails and called Charlotte about twice a day for plant-related advice.

What would drive an otherwise normal man to such ridiculous lengths? The search for the perfect tomato.

Because you see, of all my edible obsessions—and there are MANY—nothing quite tops the simple decadence of a perfect summertime tomato. Bulbous with juice, glowing red and as big as your head, a garden-fresh tomato is my official symbol of summertime and one of the finest foodstuffs on earth.

My addiction started early and came directly from my grandmother Lorelle. Of all the spiritual dishes that she could effortlessly churn out of her kitchen—garlic-spiked roast beef with savory gravy, smothered chicken with silky dumplings, fresh-snapped green beans with ham, cornbread, biscuits, and other wonders—she spent her hot summer afternoons lost in a simple lunch of sliced Louisiana Creole tomatoes with a pinch of salt. After her hundred-some-odd grandkids had eaten their noon meal, she’d shoo us from the kitchen and nurse a single tangy/sweet tomato, preferably still warm from a friend’s sunny garden. It was the simplest food in the world and her absolute favorite.

So with such high standards, I have a tough time putting up with substandard versions of my beloved vegetable/fruit. In my adult life, I’ve fought an uphill battle against the sickly pink hydroponics of Chilean-grown globes that supermarkets generously describe as “good enough for November.” I’ve asked waiters to leave the flavorless gooey slices of “red stuff” off my wintertime salads. Not to be difficult (and I am), but I’m happy to wait for the peak of a Texas summertime for one decent tomato worthy of the name.

So after years of prowling local farmer’s markets and trolling rural back roads for hand-lettered truck stands, I decided to grow my own—hence my sister’s mocking phone call.

I decided last year to grow my own patch of perfect tomatoes and to be honest; it was one of the most hellish experiences of my life. My fixation on the perfect tomato led to what civilians would call fairly extreme behavior.

After the pre-season research, I stalked my neighborhood plant stores for everything I’d need—huge bags of soil, rakes, shovels, two kinds of manure (cattle AND fish), soaker hoses, micronutrient-rich seaweed solution, and plastic netting to keep the birds out. Sure, it cost a couple of hundred bucks, but it was a small price to pay. If I was going to garden, I’d do it right—the perfect garden, built from scratch, would produce the perfect tomatoes.

I spent an afternoon turning my yard into “good soil” with the help of my expensive nutrients and fertilizers. I chose the plot with appropriate light and good drainage, then dug, chopped, sifted and massaged the dirt into submission.

Once my 12 plants were safely in the ground, I nurtured, tended, weeded, and watered, caged tied pruned and clipped. For weeks afterward, I checked, rechecked and triple checked my precious plants ON the quarter hour. I fought grackles, squirrels, and protracted skirmishes with VERY strong raccoons.

(Keep in mine that this is what gardeners call “normal.”)

At the end of the season, I’d eaten about forty of my own lovingly raised farm-fresh tomatoes—thirty pounds of summertime perfection. . As a spicy salsa, in a hefty BLT, or just sliced and salted—I ate my fill and savored the literal fruits of my labors.

But in August, I visited a local farmer’s market and saw a sign from God. Actually, it was a sign from a local farmer, standing contentedly behind baskets of his own perfect tomatoes. The sign made me immediately shake my head in disgust and depression. It said, in hand-written letters “Tomato Season. Home Grown. 99 cents a pound.”

Months later, I remembered the sign and the lesson for this season, don’t let tomato lust get in the way of common sense. Pay your dollar a pound and leave the farming to the farmers.

Did I choose my plants? “Yeah,” I replied to my garden-obsessed sister. “They’re on this little farm outside town and BOY are they tasty‚Ķ”

Filed Under: Food Talk