Here you see a few of the long storage Golden Treasure tomatoes I saved for winter, at varying levels of ripeness. 

Dear diary,

It’s the second week of March in the year 2023, and I have just chopped up the last fresh tomato from my 2022 garden. “But it’s cold,” you marvel (which is impressive for an inanimate notebook). “How ever did you accomplish such a feat, this miracle of nightshades?” Luckily for you, my inquisitive journal, I’ve recorded the whole saga here:


My cat Petrie (wearing his BirdBeSafe collar) lounges in the garden in late July. Behind him are perennial kale in the first box, and my a few tomato plants in the next. He does not remember winter is coming, nor does he care.


In mid-July, my tomato plants officially surpass me in height. They could say they're 6' tall in their Tinder profile without lying.


In late summer and fall, I turn my excessive tomatoes of all varieties into sauces and salsas. Here we have a vegetable pasta sauce and tomato jam in the making.


In February, I discover my first viviparous tomato. The fruit has run out of self-preservation and has germinated its own seeds within itself.


This week, I let Patti Mayonnaise inspect one of the last Golden Treasures from last year's garden. She mistakes it as a ball, rejects it as a snack, and walks away disgruntled.

Kate Schell is a designer at Pamplin Media. She lives with her tomato-abhorring husband and their ten thousand pets. Contact her at milkweedandhoney@pamplinmedia.com.

Recommended for you