Editor’s note: This is part of The Know’s series, Staff Favorites. Each week, we offer our opinions on the best that Colorado has to offer for dining, shopping, entertainment, outdoor activities and more. (We’ll also let you in on some hidden gems).
It’s been a bad year for my garden tomatoes so far.
I planted seeds indoors too soon, in early April; even after a month, they all were stunted in their starter pots. Not many of the 40 or so seedlings survived the transplanting to larger containers. Still more withered when I moved them outside a little too soon, for too long, to harden off.
But I was in good company. Even Denver’s tomato king, Farmer Charlie Brown, said he had trouble with many of his plantings this spring, and was frustrated by the cool overnight temperatures that delayed his gardening plans.
Finally, after consecutive warmer evenings, I put the survivors in raised beds and large pots, confident they were safe and would thrive under the Colorado sun.
A week later, on May 31, a nighttime hail storm pounded areas of metro Denver, including my Congress Park neighborhood. Despite the best efforts of my daughter and me — dashing around outside covering cars and plants, getting bruised as hail the size of golf balls bounced on and around us — the damage was done. Our cars were dinged, the roof of the house hammered, a gutter torn up and canopy shredded. And the raised beds? It was a massacre.
The Cherokee Purple? Pummeled.
Better Boy? Battered.
Stupice? Shredded.
Sun Gold and Mauve Stripe? Mulch.
But there were survivors: A few Super Sweet Hybrid 100s, those splendidly productive plants that for years of summers have favored me with thousands of delectable little cherry tomatoes, were hit but stood tall.
These little babies will give you more than enough cherry tomatoes to snack on, put in salads or on pizzas, or roast with garlic and herbs and freeze, using over the winter in sauces, green chile and stews.
And they are Oh. So. Sweet.
Last year, I forced my niece Amanda to eat them until she begged for mercy. Neighbors were gifted with bags weekly. I would be plucking those suckers off of vines until just before our first frost, then putting the green fruit in paper bags to ripen more.
Pre-pandemic, I would bring bowls of the Super Sweet 100s into the office July through September. Co-workers came by to grab a handful of the tiny tomato bombs, raving about their flavor. Reporter Colleen O’Connor was an avid fan, so much so that I took to bringing bags of Super Sweets just for her.
Early one summer, I bought a few plants for her to grow in her Wash Park backyard. I don’t know how many she got to enjoy; she was hit and killed by a drunk driver shortly before that Labor Day.
It’s sentimental to think that she might be watching over those few Super Sweet plants that survived the hail in my raised container beds. But I don’t mind being sentimental about gardening, something that brings me such joy.
Cooking is one of my love languages. Growing my own food soothes my soul and connects me to the earth. And these babies go a long way toward accomplishing that. Tiny but mighty, bursting with the taste of summer, of life.
