Home & Garden

I see it everyday through the kitchen window, dangling there all plump, green and hopeful, staring back at me like a hungry dog left outside to fend for itself.

Battling the odds and the creeping cold that measures its inevitable demise, it simply refuses to give up. Instead it strains to redden, to ripen, no matter how difficult.

It should be inside. It should've been snatched up weeks ago and been allowed to meet its fate with pride and dignity.

Like the rest of its brothers-of-the-vine, it should've been plucked from the warmth of the summer sun, cradled in the smooth hands of its master and carried inside. It should've been plopped on a cutting board and appreciated in the lingering moments before a knife's serrated blade spilled its sticky innards across the countertop.

A versatile and useful thing, it could've been boiled into a stew or displayed upon a bed of cool, wet lettuce. It could've been mashed into a sauce or added a tangy taste to some otherwise bland and predictable dish.

It should've been eaten.

Instead… it waits. The sun, which provided its only hope for maturity and growth, is but a distant memory.

The lone tomato — tiny and virginal — struggles to survive. The nights have become the enemy. And the cold, the bitter, biting cold, which has turned its once-vibrant neighboring plants into wilted puddles of stems and petals, is always lurking.

Besides, those plants are safe.

They'll go dormant, returning to bloom in the spring and to enjoy months of growth and beauty. This is it for the lone tomato.

Then came the first frost.

Like a wet-towel snap to the buttocks, it came as quite a surprise. One night it was chilly, but still bearable. The next, I could see my breath before the sun went down.

Scurrying against nightfall like rabbit from a fox, I went from front porch to back deck, gathering up all the sensitive plants — the bromeliad, the purple angel trumpet-looking thing, the succulents and the can't-believe-it's-still-blooming pot of gerber daisies. Together they turned my garage into a jungle.

Only the tomato remained.

It was the last one left on a vine that was all but dead. I lingered over it, unsure of what to do.

I felt sorry for the poor thing. And … a little guilty. Heck, I hate tomatoes.

This was My Lovely Wife's project. She's the only who eats 'em. Plus, we didn't really have a place in the back yard that got enough sun to sustain an actual garden. So I got an old pot, dumped in some 'Mater Dirt and hoped for the best.

We planted too many vines. One would've been fine (Suddenly, I'm Shel Silverstein … "If the track is tough and the hill is rough, THINKING you can just ain't enough!").

But the first frost came, and still it clung to life. By the second night, the bruising had begun. Staring out the kitchen window, I wanted to rescue the little lonely tomato, so I spared it from the freezing darkness and certain doom.

It now sits on the edge of my desk like a green tumor, a plump and peaceful paperweight. But at least it's happy and safe … for now.