If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s this—seeds are cheap, but common sense is priceless. Unfortunately for me, in the spring of 2016, I had an abundance of seeds and a severe deficiency of common sense. In other words, you get what you pay for.
It started off as a simple plan. Grow some tomatoes. Make some sauce. Maybe some salsa. Easy, right? Except I didn’t just plant a reasonable number of seedlings. I planted ninety fucking tomato plants.
Now, in my defense, starting your own seedlings is dirt cheap. I had trays full of baby tomato plants under grow lights, thriving like a bunch of hopeful virgins on prom night. And I figured, hey, some might not make it. Some might die off. Mother Nature will thin the herd, right?
Wrong.
Every Goddamned one survived.
By June, my backyard looked like a tomato jungle that had gone feral. By July, I was up to my ass in ripening fruit. By August, I was knee-deep in so many goddamn tomatoes that even my daughter, Alexis—who had long since accepted my questionable decision-making—finally had to say something.
She stood in the backyard, arms crossed, staring at the towering tomato plants like they were the eighth wonder of the world, then turned to me with that look only a daughter can give her father.
“Dad. Why?”
I shrugged. “Seeds are cheap buying plants, not so much.”
Her eye twitched several times. “Yeah? So is adopting a stray cat, but you don’t bring home ninety of them.”
Fair point. But I had bigger problems than Alexis questioning my lack of common sense—I had more tomatoes than any reasonable human being could process.
I was canning salsa, pasta sauce, crushed tomatoes, diced tomatoes, stewed tomatoes, tomato jam—you name it, I was putting it in a damn jar. I was boiling water baths like a mad scientist, my kitchen smelled like a pizzeria exploded, and at some point, I had a mild existential crisis while stirring my eighth pot of simmering sauce and damned if I didn’t run out of pot every single time.
And yet—they just kept coming.
At first, I tried giving them away to friends and family. They were happy to take a few—at first. But after the sixth grocery bag full of tomatoes, people started avoiding me like I had a contagious disease.
So I turned to my elderly neighbors.
Now, the elderly are a wise people. They have survived wars, economic downturns, and the absolute horror that was canned ham in the 1950s. Better known as SPAM. Surely, they could appreciate a few fresh, homegrown tomatoes.
At first, they were grateful. “Oh, how wonderful! Fresh tomatoes!” They made sauce, BLTs, caprese salads. Life was good.
But then, the love apples kept coming.
Every other morning, like goddamn Santa Claus, I was dropping off bags of produce on their doorstep. They started looking nervous whenever they saw me walking their way. By mid-August, I knocked on my neighbor Dottie’s door, and before I could even open my mouth, she held up both hands and said:
“No more. Please. For the love of God, stop.”
Her husband, Dick, peered around the door frame. “We’re drowning in tomatoes over here, Guy. I’ve been eating tomatoes three times a day and every time I use the bathroom, I swear my hemorrhoids burst.”
I tried to protest, but Dottie looked me dead in the eyes and begged. “We threw away five pounds yesterday. I can’t do this anymore.”
I had broken my neighbors. I had become the neighborhood tomato dealer. I expected the cops to show up any day and haul me in for culinary terrorism with a side of unsolicited marinara.
So what did I do? I did what any logical person would do—I started leaving tomatoes anonymously.
They woke up to mysterious produce deliveries. A bag on the porch. A few tomatoes tucked into their mailbox. One time, I left a basket on their back deck and watched from my kitchen window as they stared at it like it was a goddamn horror movie.
At some point, I had to accept defeat. I had too many tomatoes, too few willing recipients, and even my compost pile was starting to look overwhelmed.
The summer of 2016 taught me many things—patience, humility, and exactly how many tomatoes it takes to break an elderly couple’s will to live.
Sometimes, you get what you pay for. And in my case, I paid pennies for 90 tomato plants and a hell of a lot of regret.
Would I do it again? Hell no.
But at least now, I have the best damn salsa and sauce recipes on the planet.
And if you ever wake up to a surprise bag of tomatoes on your doorstep, just know that if it happens to you, I’ll be watching from my kitchen window, laughing my ass off while checking TEMU for more common sense and extra canning jars.
Summer Fresh Salsa
Ingredients:
- 10 large ripe tomatoes, cored and diced
- 1 large onion, finely chopped
- 2 jalapeños, diced (adjust for heat tolerance—don’t be a coward)
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
- Juice of 2 limes
- 1 tsp salt
- 1 tsp black pepper
- 1/2 tsp cumin
- 1/2 tsp smoked paprika
Instructions:
- In a large bowl, combine all ingredients.
- Stir well and let sit for at least 30 minutes to let the flavors meld. (Overnight is even better.)
- Taste and adjust seasoning if needed.
- Serve with chips, tacos, or eat it with a damn spoon—whatever makes you happy.
Homemade Tomato Sauce for Canning
Ingredients:
- 10 lbs fresh tomatoes, peeled and diced
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 large onion, chopped
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped
- 1 tbsp dried oregano
- 2 tsp salt
- 1 tsp black pepper
- 1 tsp sugar (optional, but helps balance acidity)
- 1/2 tsp red pepper flakes (because spice makes life better)
Instructions:
- Heat olive oil in a large pot over medium heat.
- Add onions and garlic, sautéing until soft.
- Add tomatoes, basil, oregano, salt, pepper, sugar, and red pepper flakes.
- Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer uncovered for at least an hour.
- Blend with an immersion blender for a smoother sauce (or leave it chunky—your call).
Canning Instructions:
- Ladle hot sauce into sterilized jars, leaving 1/2-inch headspace.
- Wipe rims, apply lids, and screw bands finger-tight.
- Process in a boiling water bath for 40 minutes.
- Let jars cool completely before checking seals.