Joys of growing cherry tomatoes in a city

Ibought the first tomato plant mostly on a whim. As city dwellers, we don’t have a backyard. We have a roof deck and a bricked-in courtyard out back. I snuggled a few of the seedlings in with a lemon-basil plant, then purchased bags of soil and pots. I put the soil in the pots, put the plants in the soil, put the pots on the roof and hoped for the best. As the family’s early riser, my husband agreed to do the watering, prompting me to quote my favourite Onion headline: ‘Having a Gardener Is a Wonderful Hobby’. He was sceptical. I talked a good game, but in truth, I wasn’t optimistic, either.

But the tomato plants began to grow, going from six-inch-high delicate collections of leaves to vigorous, bushy, knee-high plants.

Encouraged by that early success, I went back to Home Depot and returned with an eggplant, a banana pepper, bell pepper plants and strawberries, cucumbers and cantaloups. I even bought four corn plants. And more soil. And more pots.

I started to notice who else in the neighbourhood was growing veggies, especially the ones doing it better. When we went on vacation, my husband and I seriously contemplated taking our tomato plants with us (we settled for finding someone to water them). When I went on a book tour, my husband sent me pictures of the tomatoes, the way years ago he might have sent me pictures of the kids.

My husband read up on eggplants, learning that they are bisexual and that they self-pollinate, and when the first tiny one appeared. These days, with my 50th birthday looming, I think a lot about where the surprises are going to come from. Not the satisfaction, not the joy, but the unexpected delights — the didn’t-see-it-coming thrill you get from learning that your bid on the house was accepted, or that you got the job offer, or that you’re having a baby.

At my age, life doesn’t offer many firsts. Which isn’t to say there aren’t upsides to being settled down. Chances are, you’ve gained some wisdom. You’ve fallen in love, and learnt that no one dies of a broken heart; you’ve fallen on your face, and found you can almost always get back up.

And yes, my children are still surprising me with their insights and witticisms and the one time they made their beds without being asked. They still need me. But it’s not the same kind of need that they had when they were babies, when I was waiting to see them crawl or hunched over them as they learnt to walk; when I’d walk into the baby’s room every morning feeling like I was unwrapping some fantastic and much-longed-for gift. My job as a mother has shifted from watching them grow to letting them go. My daughters are the ones with all the big reveals ahead of them — college and jobs and travel, love and heartbreak.

I know how privileged I am to have the luxury of wondering where my next joyful moment is coming from?

It’s the tomatoes.

As October is winding down, so is our little urban garden. We didn’t have what you’d call a bumper crop. The tomatoes and the banana pepper plants both thrived, but the eggplant yielded only three smallish fruits; my four corn plants gave us a total of five scrawny ears, and the cantaloup vine just grows and grows and sits there, fruitless, taunting me. We’re planning on doing better next time and maybe even starting next year’s plants from seeds. Maybe we’ll knock on that neighbour’s door and ask for his or her secrets. We’ll read up on sun and soil and mulch, we’ll file away tomato-centric recipes, we’ll add zucchini and squash and maybe even pumpkins to the mix. We’ll tend them and take pictures, enjoying the surprises as they grow.

■ Jennifer Weiner is an American writer, television producer and journalist.