it's like christmas in jul-- june. in june.

When I first started all of my seedlings back in January/February, I kept a neat little journal that noted when I watered things, when I planted them, their germination time, and so on. I also carefully labelled everything so that I knew exactly what was in each little peat pot, intermediary pot, and final container. The remnants of this grueling methodology are my two PL (potato leaf) tomatoes, which are easy to spot as they don't look like anything else that I'm growing, although they still smell like tomato plants, one black plum tomato plant, who could have just as easily been a different kind of tomato, were it not already producing fruit, and my purple husk tomatillo, which was planted at the same time as the tomatoes and looks nothing like them. Really, then, the only thing I have to show for all that time and effort is a bunch of plants that I would be able to identify, even without little labels.

My second batch of seeds, however, I did not label, and I'm now faced with the interesting conundrum of having plants come up and begin to develop... and having no real idea what they are. I have a squash plant that's already been transplanted and is growing nicely, although I don't know if it's zucchini (which I tolerate), an heirloom yellow crookneck (which I like), or a french variety of pattypan squash (my favourite). It could also potentially be a cucumber or an acorn squash, and the fact of the matter is that no matter how much time I search the internet trying to determine what kind of squash it is, I'll always have my doubts until it starts to produce fruit.

Since not everything came up, I'm now left with questions about exactly what I do and don't have. I have something that could be eggplant or could be more peppers and three of the four strains of squash that I originally planted. Because I planted another batch of tomatoes, I know only that I definitely have three of the seven varieties of tomato that I planted (or was it eight? nine?), and I have a bundle of mystery tomatoes that could be pretty much anything, as my trip to the community garden where I picked up my tomato seeds was rushed, causing me to throw multiple varieties into one bag, assuming that their gods could sort them out in the end.

Truth be told, I think it might be more fun not to know right away-- there should be an element to nature that is chaotic and not easily controlled or manipulated by humankind. All in all, my lack of organization will mean little more than a very large surplus of some crops this year, as I continue to plant more to make sure that I don't miss anything.

Anyone need some organic heirloom tomatoes?

everybody salsa!

After over a month of casually whining about my tomato plants, which had flowers but hadn't pollinated, I decided to take matters into my own hands and begin the arduous task of hand-pollinating them.

If you aren't already aware, this process really just involves tapping on flowers once a day to dislodge some of the pollen, and it's really only necessary when it's unusually hot or humid out, because tomatoes are typically self-pollinating, which means that: 1) the tomato flowers on a single plant can breed with one another, and 2) one tomato plant is all you need to get oodles of tomatoes. Tomato flowers are what are called "complete" flowers, which means that they contain both parts necessary for reproduction (some other plants, such as squash, have two different sets of flowers that have to interact, often multiple times, for there to be a fruit).

As I went out with my trusty bamboo spoon in hand (converting your kitchen utensils to bamboo is not only better for you, but also for your pans and the environment!) and began to tap lightly on the flower clusters, I noticed the most amazing thing-- a tiny green tomato. After I then rushed around, shouting my triumph to everyone I knew, I took a closer look. Three tomatoes. Closer inspection still (and the help of my roommate at the time, Rick) showed that there were in fact five Black Plum Tomatoes and over a dozen Hillbilly Potato Leaf Tomatoes-- all small and green, but certainly coming in. A day later, I noticed a tiny heirloom hot pepper coming in (Mulato Isleno), and, to tell the truth, I had given up all hope of growing peppers this year.

Excited, I checked my Purple Husk Tomatillo, resigned to the fact that it would probably have nothing more than pretty yellow flowers for the season because its sister plant had met an unfortunate end during my move to my new place, and I had read somewhere that tomatillos were not self-pollinating (in the sense that you need two plants to get any fruit, although they also have complete flowers like their tomato cousins). Apparently, whatever I had read had been incorrect, as my tomatillo plant is now covered, yes, in pretty yellow flowers, but also in about 20 little paper lanterns, the sign of impending tomatillos.

It's not the season for much of anything else yet, but I have quite the head start on my salsa crop for this year.