by Ali Koomen

Created on: June 01, 2008   Last Updated: June 09, 2008

I grew up in northern Illinois, an area that has some of the richest soil in the country. My father loved gardening there, just for that reason. Every year I would get shanghaied into helping him turn the soil, sow seeds and place the bedding plants. His tomatoes were his pride and joy, and he slaved over them. Or rather, I slaved over them while he assumed a more managerial role.

Truthfully, I enjoyed gardening and the tomatoes were a source of pride for me. The plants grew in militarily precise rows alongside the patio, and I kept them watered and weeded, staked and trimmed. Those tomatoes were luscious. Deep red, with taut skins and juicy insides. I've lived in Arizona for twenty years now and it's been at least that long since I've had a REAL tomato. The greenhouse tomatoes we get at the market here are pink and tasteless, a mere ghost of what they should taste like.

But, oh, those Illinois tomatoes! During the summer we'd have them at every meal. My mother sprinkled hers with sugar, my dad salted his heavily. We enjoyed salads and sauces, tomato bread, fried tomatoes. My brothers liked to slather white bread with peanut butter and add a few slices of ripe tomato. It sounds like an odd combo, but it is actually quite good. When friends stopped by, we'd offer a bagful to take home, and would silently gloat when people would tell us how much better our tomatoes were than any others they'd tasted.

One summer I came home from hanging out with friends. My dad's car was parked in the driveway but the house was quiet. He was a semi truck driver and slept odd hours, so we all knew to be quiet. I crept in, silent as a mouse, but I heard him call out to me from his bedroom at the end of the hall. "Bug, is that you?

I'm terrified of all things with more than four legs, so my nickname was-what else?-"Bug".
"Yeah, Dad. It's me."

"Hey, the tomatoes look good." He'd just returned from a trip, and he always acted like he expected the garden to be in shambles when he returned.

"Yeah, there's a big old beefsteak near the end that'll be ready in a couple of days."

"There's already a good one mid-row. Why don't you go out and pick it? I got a taste for it."

As I headed to the door I heard him add, "And pick the crabgrass that's trying to sneak in."

Sure enough, although I had weeded just that morning, the insidious crabgrass was starting to encroach. The bad thing about Illinois soil is that weeds like it as much as the good plants do. Once I had gotten the weeds out of the way, I started

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