Upside-down tomatoes used to be a thing. Better than right-side-up tomatoes, they were upside-down. That, and on TV.
The scenes, shot film-noir style, showed a plant strung up by its roots, refusing to confess. To what? Fake heirloom papers?
Too dark for me. Plus the process requires heaving dirt into pot and hoisting pot into air _ harder than sprinkling seeds.
This year I raised rescues; they'd been abandoned by a botany class. Dropped in the garden, the seedlings quickly scaled a low fence, then flailed for help. When none arrived, they scrambled across the top rail. Maybe I can get a TV deal for sideways tomatoes.
Some mornings, a clutch of fat red tomatoes turns up. Some mornings, they're pre-nibbled. Slim Bunny, seen lurking near the kale, is considered the prime suspect. Until I can nab him and flip him upside down for questioning I'll _ begrudgingly _ share.
