Maters

These tomatoes are impressive even to people in Phoenix who have become jaded by the abundance of glimmering produce in every store. Even the post office here is knee-deep in fat squashes and glowing raspberries the size of golf balls and big-hipped artichokes that beg to be taken home and steamed.

And these tomatoes, grown by my sister, hail from humble little Indiana. She is one ridiculously good gardener. Except for one little slip-up this year: She planted pumpkin seeds with her 5-year-old granddaughter, and what came up were watermelons. ALL. OVER. THE. GARDEN. Taking over like a gang of crocodiles.

She has to pick one of her cucumbers the size of a battering ram to whack them over the head with.