Tomatoes and Mountains

Despite the nearly daily thunderstorms, which deposited three inches in an hour or two on Monday afternoon, our garden has produced a third picking of green beans.  We have had enough for several dinners - in fact, it's on the menu again tonight with grilled chicken - and we have even frozen two pints.  They always taste especially good on those cold days in November and December, a reminder of summer days and summer food.

We have also finally had some good luck with tomatoes this year, which seem to ripen overnight.  I will spot a green tomato from the deck that is starting to blush a little, pick it immediately, and line it up on the kitchen windowsill with the others.  Tomatoes have also been on the menu a lot lately:  BLTs for lunch, and our favorite summertime appetizer, fresh mozzarella and sliced tomatoes with basil from Martha's herb garden on the deck, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar - classic caprese.

I still vividly remember trading gardening tips with a coworker years and years ago, when another coworker scornfully told us that gardening was a waste of time; if you added up the time and cost, you would do just as well at the produce stand or the supermarket.  How true that is!  And all gardeners of course understand that.  But if we start down that road, what is to keep us from saying that one could just as easily drive the four miles that I ran on Monday, or visit the seafood stand instead of wasting all day surf fishing on the beach.  Of course it's a waste of time and money.  But those of us who proudly slice into that first misshapen, imperfect home grown tomato of the season do not need to explain.

The four miles I ran on Monday was, for the eighth week in a row, Bearpen Mountain.  I may have reached the point in my training when not running to the summit of this mountain every Monday would make me feel guilty.  It was foggy this Monday, and there was little traffic.  It began misting rain, and after awhile I could not tell the difference between the fog and fine mist, the humidity, and my own sweat.  It was not an unpleasant feeling, and on the descent it began raining, nice and cool, just for a half-mile or so.  Ahead of me, I could see a single headlight approaching in the fog, and it turned out to be a man on a bicycle.  I had seen him climbing this mountain once or twice before, and we greeted each other genially.  In a few minutes, I could hear him coming down the mountain behind me, and I thought I could slightly detect the acrid smell of his brakes as he whizzed past.

It's always worth the effort to climb a mountain, running or cycling.  Just as it is always worth the effort to grow a garden.