Urban Tomato Rituals, or, How I Got in Touch With Agrarian Pagan Cycles

So I’m not much of a gardener. But this year I planted two tomato plants, one on either side of the outside altar in the back yard.I watered them every day, and it struck me that as the water seeped into the earth, some of it would ultimately end up in my body. I was amazed at the thought, staring at the dripping plants in sheer wonder.

Over the next few weeks I continued my vigil. I’d wait til the evening so the water wouldn’t help the sun fry the little plants. I looked at the healthy leaves packed full of green chlorophyll that transformed the sunlight into nourishment—an alien concept to mammalian systems. For sure, we get a few vitamins and increased serotonin production, but were we to stay out in the sun all day we’d never survive so well as these little nightshade cousins.

I thought about the roots, too, digging deep into the mixture of dirt and potting soil I’d naively first given them, later supplemented by the combined fish, bone and other organic meals. I imagined the tiny root hairs pulling microscopic nutrients out of the dirt, something my body could never do no matter how much dirt I ate. I remembered, too, just how shallow the soil really is in relation to just the rest of the crust of the Earth, never mind the mantle and core. Fifth grade geology never lets me forget that.

Today, I left an offering for the spirits at the altar and harvested the first two tomatoes. They were small, about golf ball sized, since I didn’t realize until recently that tomatoes need to be fertilized (A friend of mine was kind enough to give me some of that aforementioned organic fertilizer he puts on his tomatoes). Still, they were perfectly ripe, a hearty deep orange without the red tint the supermarkets sometimes artificially add, with firm flesh.

I brought them inside, and after supper I took one to Taylor, who pronounced it good.

I then took the other and carefully sliced it into four pieces, horizontally, on a plate. I sat down on the floor and picked up the smallest piece, the end opposite the stem. I considered it for a moment. There, glistening on the surface of the inner flesh, was the very same water that I had doused the plant with weeks ago. I observed it in awe, then I placed the sacrament on my tongue.

It was sweet and slightly tangy, with the acid nip of its species. Mild, though, and quite tasty. The inner flesh was perfect—ripe, but not mushy. Perfection. I consumed the other three pieces until only the stem remained. Then I collected the other stem from Taylor and took them outside.

I placed them at the base of the plant that had grown them and thanked it for its gift, and returned to the house feeling initiated into a new mystery.

Two tomato plants, and yet I believe I feel more connected to the Earth and its cycles than my mother with her huge impressive gardens ever did. Perhaps my victory is laughable to those who have known this for years, who rediscovered for themselves the applied theories—or who never forgot. From one who had only managed to grow very fertile aloe plants, though, two tomatoes from start to finish is an accomplishment indeed. I can still taste the acid and the skin on my tongue, the sunlight and carefully applied water, hours later, and I think it’ll be staying with me for a while yet, lest I forget again.

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