Mater Mania

I'm knee deep in tomatoes.

Literally.

And no. I don't have a picture to prove it. Just trust me on this.

Knee deep.

Up to my elbows.

And no. They're not from my garden. Are you kidding? With the exception of the cherry tomatoes, I have only been able to pick a handful off the eight plants currently running wild in their bed.

Side note: I did not plant cherry tomatoes. At least, I did not plant them on purpose. They were mislabeled at the nursery which meant that instead of Celebrities, I got Cherries. Big difference. Huge.

Fortunately for me, I know someone who has a relative who owns a tomato farm. And, since they only pick green tomatoes, we were invited to pick all the red tomatoes we could carry away. We went once and came home with sixty pounds that became my marinara.

But this time, this time was for keeps. As of Monday, the fields were turned over. Any tomatoes left on the vine were returned to the ground in preparation of the next planting. It was enough to make the canner in me a wee bit frantic.

After all, I'm the one whose palms itch to knock on strange doors when I notice their fruit trees dropping perfectly good produce on the ground. I'm the one who will pickle a watermelon rind rather than throw it out. I'm that one.

Blame it on my mother who constantly reminded me of the starving children in Africa. Blame it on my job which constantly reminds me of the starving children in America. Blame it on the rain.

Sorry. Had to lighten the mood there.

Sarah, Elizabeth and I drove out to the farm on Sunday. We opened the iron gate and made our way to one tiny corner of one of the four huge fields. We unloaded our buckets and bags and bins and started picking.

Two hours later, I stretched my back as the early evening light made it impossible to tell if I was picking orange or red. Sarah's car was loaded down with tomatoes. So many, we were cramming them under Elizabeth's feet in the back seat. We couldn't pick another.

We drove away, staring at the hundreds of thousands of pounds that would become tomorrow's compost. It is very important to note the owners of this farm open their field to the workers who come out and pick as many tomatoes as they like for their own personal use or to sell at Farmer's Markets to supplement their income. Still, farming is as farming does and fields need to be turned at some point.

Even if that field is full of ripe, delicious tomatoes.

I've got to stop thinking about it. The canner in me is going to cry. All those tomatoes! So little time to can.

In the meantime, I have 200 pounds of tomatoes in my kitchen. That is not a typo. Two HUNDRED pounds. I started processing them Sunday night. I was up until midnight and ended up with seven quarts of whole tomatoes. Which equals out to twenty-one pounds. I did a little math and realized it's not even close to a drop in the bucket.

Monday night, I canned tomato sauce, salsa, and whole tomatoes, denting the bags just a little. I put a notice on Facebook telling my friends to stop by and pick up tomatoes. I figure I have one more night. Tonight. Then, I'm going to take whatever is left to the Food Bank and hope they can move them before they get too soft.

Wish me luck. Of the tomato kind.