Triumphant and Tragic Tomato

I used to think that I had a little bit of a green thumb...after all, my high school science fair project was successful, and it even involved cross pollinating plants (by the way...hot gluing dried bee abdomens onto toothpicks to use for cross pollination purposes can be frustrating, but if you ever need any tips, I'm your girl).

I also had some kind of dendron (rhododendron? philodrendon? I'm not quite sure) dubbed "Frederick Eugene Cornelius" I procured in college, which has been flourishing for 13 years.

Sadly, these previous examples are the anomaly in my plant growing resume. Especially here in California, where plants are purported to have a growing season of 12 months, I thought I might have a chance of adding some additional success in my agricultural career. Nope. 

I have discovered that the plants I have tried to grow in my pots in our courtyard (by the way, although it would be handy to call this little garden my "pot garden" since everything is growing in pots, that term can be misunderstood, so it is hereafter referred to as the courtyard garden) don't thrive. I have planted peppers, tomatoes, and lots of wildflowers. I had visions of bringing my friends colorful floral bouquets and feasting from the pepper and tomato bounty that would emerge from the pots in the courtyard.  Those ambitious dreams are in the past, however, as I have tried fruitlessly (pun intended) to produce something, anything, from the modest green sprouts that are in the pots. 

A few weeks ago, a miracle happened! One of the hanging tomato plants actually grew, and PRODUCED A TOMATO! I was ecstatic, and was imagining the different ways we could celebrate and eat the tiny cherry tomato once it was grown. Cut it three ways? Eat it all at once? Suck out the juice and harvest the seeds for future generations? The possibilities were exciting. 

Then, as I was filling the pitcher with water for the tomato plant, my favorite little helper launched himself out of his sandbox and went to investigate the tomato. Things after that happened in a blur of slow motion. He pointed, said "tomato," and then delicately plucked it from the plant before I could reach him. Sad.

To his credit, however, he didn't discard the tomato, but played with it for the next 35 minutes, taking a bite (hence the expression in one of the photos) and then rolling it around like a ball, taking it on a journey in the sandbox, etc. 

Although I doubt there will be a next time, if there is, I won't get so attached to the items from the garden.