I planted a tomatillo seed.
Actually I planted 15 of them. Five have survived to adulthood.
Two are now carving a life out for themselves in the sweltering humidity of north Alabama. Apparently they are loving it there as reports continue to surface that they have bunches of husks popping up, readying themselves for tomatillo glory.
Three survive here with me in northern Florida. “Survive” being the key word since they certainly aren’t busy tomatillo-ing it. Oh, they are huge and sprawling and very artistically branched. They even are prettily dotted with little yellow blooms all over the place. Yes, they are beautiful.
*cue the violin*
Between all of their fine branches and sculptural stems only one, lone, solitary tomatillo has been born. And yesterday she was ready to be picked.
So picked her I did.
She now sits on my kitchen table, neither of us knowing quite what to do with her now that she is here.
What does one do with a single tomatillo?… (Hey, wouldn’t that make a great title for a children’s story? I can see the illustrations now. We could call her Tituba and give her a backstory full of… * dog growls at me in warning*… Pardon, the author in me was showing again. And the very last thing this author needs is to start another project. So, as you were, everyone. Carry on.)
Bottom line: my tomatillo plants are barren once again.
Beautiful but barren.
Perhaps my uterus-less-ness has carried over into the tomatillo patch? I bet there’s a scientific study to be had there. The effect of hysterectomies on husked plants.
I’ll notify Harvard right after I work out Tituba’s sordid past.