Bill Riley has waited nearly 30 years for grapes this good.
I have this early memory of my Uncle Chuck. He’s standing in the garden of our favorite farmstand, haloed by morning sun. He bites into a tomato. Juice squirts into the light, runs down his chin. He tips his head back, grins and says through a cheekful, “Now that’s a good tomato.”
In the middle of the heat-wave, I was dreaming of winter. Not to cool off, but to consider whether I can squeeze in a fall/winter garden.
My lettuce has bench-pressed its shade-cloth into the air.
The tomato, 2,000 miles north and 15 degrees south of its native home, often balks at growing well around Puget Sound.
