Tending to Tomatoes

Every summer I refresh the soil in three large, black garden pots and plant tomatoes.
My garden is in Wellington, on the south side of my house. Planting tomatoes is an exercise in hope.

The idea is that the black pots will draw the heat, and I sit them against a brick wall to give them shelter and make them warmer still. But it’s an ongoing experiment; early summer in the Capital can be windy and grey.

Some varieties of tomato do better than others. Cherry tomatoes are happy to tough it out against the wind, with a glimpse of sun. Sweet 100s are hardy, as is the Black Russian tomato, a rugged heirloom variety with deep mahogany skin and a nostalgic taste. Yellow pear tomatoes and Capri were a joy last summer.

Many varieties will produce plenty of tall branches, lush leaves, even flowers, only to be torn down by the wind. Other plants display green fruit that will never ripen or will otherwise try to ripen in a tangle of branches heaped on top of each other by the wind that’s impossible to untangle without breaking branches and tearing off fruit.

Why don’t I give up and buy them from sunnier places where they grow more easily? Horowhenua, for example, just up the road where members of my family raise seed and grow enough tomatoes to share. But the garden is my peaceful place, where a dogged gardener can feel restored and happy.

Now its spring, and the tomatoes have long gone from the black pots. I replaced them in winter with fragrant purple hyacinths—the off-season tenants who are a lot less trouble. Dug deep into the soil, the hyacinths emerge into the rigours of winter only when they are good and ready, and with them, the hope of spring.

Until it’s tomato time again.