Contractual Obligations Regarding a Tomato Plant
While on the Sunshine Coast I expropriated this tomato plant from my parents yard while they were away. Shhh. The volunteer tomato plant appeared in a section of the garden dedicated to carrots and beets. My best guess is she seeded from a fallen tomato from the previous year.
Mato, as I like to call her, went on a Coastal adventure to find her way to my backyard. I wasn’t sure she would survive, but she did. Her survival is due, in part, to a burly biker who—in my opinion—is a tomato whisperer.
It was hot hot hot the day I took the ferry home and Mato wasn’t looking very happy strapped down in the flatbed of the truck. Her leaves were withered and I wondered whether travelling in the open wind would rob her of all her pollen. I was starting to feel guilty about the potential death of a tomato plant and hoped 45 minutes in the shade aboard the ferry would restore her vitality.
My seat was back and the windows were open when I spied a large man eyeing up the contents in the back of the truck. He reached out and tickled Mato’s leaves. Uh….
Then this giant of a man was at my window. Dressed head to toe in leather, his beard—which would make even the members of ZZ Top envious—reached down to his belly. He wore a bandana on his head with a naked lady riding a skull.
In a voice that didn’t match his appearance, he said, “You need to water your tomato plant as soon as you get home, little lady.”
“Oh yes,” I said, “I will.”
Looking at me sternly, he said, “Promise me.”
And so, on a ferry bound back to Vancouver, I made a promise to a giant biker man to water my tomato plant when I got home. It was a contract bound by heat, sweat, a naked lady riding a skull, and a supremely serious stern look.
Mato is all the better for it.