Every spring, Mike starts putting things in pots that he swears he’ll care for properly and that won’t die out in mid-August in our yard in front of God and all the neighbors.

Around about this time a year, he’s all but given up on those plants and I get to be responsible for keeping them alive. This doesn’t create as much marital friction as you might think because usually he’s planted stuff I want to eat.

Usually.

This year, he planted tomato plants that were supposed to be of a variety one could use for sandwiches or salads, or sauces or soups if I gave myself enough time.

Except our plants were mislabeled, and instead of a couple dozen decent-sized slicing tomatoes, we got roughly four gazillion cherry tomatoes. Smaller than cherry, even. Maybe a Lilliputian varietal. They’re teensy.

There was a time when Colin would pop these things like gumballs. Back before anything closer to a vegetable than ketchup somehow became anathema to my youngest child. These days, he prefers his vegetables hidden in fruit juice, or else ground up and molded into a shape that holds his favorite spiced mystery meat. Preferably coated with an MSG-based powder and wrapped in Taco Bell paper.