War

Every spring, we plant tomatoes, and think this year will not be like last year, or the year before and the one before that one. The definition of stupid (or insanity) is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Pretty much explains why our political class keeps pushing socialism, but we were talking about tomatoes.

Mostly, it is too dang hot to get anything worth eating. Or the grasshoppers overrun the place, and the stink bugs get busy. Basically this far south is not a happy place to grow my favorite vegetable. And if you can’t get a decent BLT once a week in the summer, well, what’s the point.

We have our plants up next to the house, right where we had them 6 years ago, when we got a bumper crop. More tomatoes than you could shake a stick at. And then the burning time came. A La Nina weather system hung around for seemingly ever and then drought, plagues of grasshoppers and no rain, which goes hand in hand with drought, but worth mentioning again, cause one year we did not have rain or snow.

Still we persisted, mostly out of orneriness. This morning, I stepped out and did my morning recon. I noticed a half eaten tomato on the deck, and had some unkind thoughts toward raccoons and possums. I walked by them and saw that all the tomatoes were missing on the only large tomato plant we have going. As I was staring at it, getting peeved, I caught a movement off to my right, and when I focused on what was moving, I perceived a squirrel with a large green tomato in his mouth. The last green tomato, in fact, on my aggrieved Best Boy plant. I stood there, mouth probably agape, staring at this squirrel, who was taking his time ambling up the tree. I had never heard of squirrels having a yen for tomatoes. I guess I had not gotten the memo and since we don’t have a dog anymore (whaaaaaa!) the little tree rats have run amuck. This of course means war.

War

I told the Mrs to dig up her best buttermilk and squirrel recipe. Hopefully, it does not call for tomatoes, cause we got none. They say justice delayed is justice not served, but it’s too dang hot out to skin squirrels, so I am going to have to wait a bit, which is fine. It will give me time to work up a good hatin as my Scottish ancestors would have approved. I wonder if they ever put squirrel in haggis? I’ll ask the Mrs if she can run down a recipe.