From time to time I peruse the other blogs tethered to Cape Cod Today. Boy, lots of angst and interest about small town doin’s. Color me ignorant, but I’ve got enough angst and subtle ruin in my own life to keep me distracted. That and the new batch of "Facts of Life" reruns showing on cable.

It’s the "little" things that keep me busy. Kind of like "Seinfeld". Remember how it was billed as a show about nothing? Well, really, it was about something. Or better yet, a bunch of little somethings.

Which brings me to tomatoes. Ah, tomatoes. I don’t much fancy summer and it’s associates, heat and sun. But I love its tomatoes. Local tomatoes. Cape Cod tomatoes. Tomatoes are a seemingly simple matter.

But it hasn’t been an easy road the past few years. One year a co-worker’s homegrown tomatoes developed a black fungusy (yes, not a word) ailment. Kind of like the big bad in the final season of Buffy—the evil that "devours from below".

Others fall victim to various and sundry bugs and rodents. And deer. Do deer eat tomatoes? I’m sure there is some know-it-all out there who will let me know.

We tried one year (sounds like having a baby). Bought the pots, the soil and a variety of plants. The big and beefies—all the ones with weird names. The S/O was very sporting about the whole thing considering she hates tomatoes. Not the flavor she tells me, the consistency. Endless tirades about how slimy they are do not deter. Me loves me tomatoes.

So she’s out there watering them, tending to them, fashioning poles for them to grow on. Once, I think I even heard her talking to them. I like to think she was saying something sweet—it was probably more along the lines of "grow you little f&*#ers!"

That year’s crop was no bumper. I think it yielded one or two sorry looking specimens. Which I, of course, seasoned and devoured with great thanks to the S/O and just in case, whatever higher being may have been listening in.

The following year, we tried the in the ground method. Disastrous. Not a one. But that’s okay. Because of the male Chihuahua. Male Chihuahuas aren’t exactly leg lifters. They kind of just stand there, aim down and do their business.

But one day my boy caught on to the heavenly, testosterone induced feeling of the leg lift. And now he can barely keep it down. His favorite target(s)? Plants. Flowers. Tomato plants. And the basil we were growing. Suffice it to say our "Green Acres" days are over.

I now rely on the kindness of others. Namely a coworker (cellmate, whatever) who bestowed upon me some of the best tomatoes I’ve had in a long time. Cape Cod grown and tasty as all hell.