Field records.
She mailed everything.
Then returned to harvest.
Because laboratory mystery did not reduce the number of tomatoes requiring picking.
The first serious harvest began in late August.
The Farm Woman expected good production.
Not this much.
Tomatoes filled buckets faster than the family could process them.
Deep red.
Dense flesh.
Strong flavor.
Some irregular.
Some nearly perfect.
The old family line did not care about supermarket symmetry.
Customers at the small roadside stand did not either.
A woman bought four pounds.
Returned the next day.
Bought ten.
“What variety?”
The Farm Woman answered:
“I don’t know.”
The customer laughed.
“You’re selling mystery tomatoes?”
“Yes.”
“They’re the best mystery I’ve eaten.”
Word spread.
Then came the canning.
Her aunt arrived with two pressure canners, old aprons, and the confidence of someone who considered kitchen logistics a military discipline.
“You have too many tomatoes.”
“I noticed.”
“How many jars?”
“As many as necessary.”
“Wrong answer.”
Her aunt looked at the crates.
“Thirty.”
“Maybe forty.”
The Farm Woman groaned.
Three days followed.
Wash.
Blanch.
Peel.
Cut.
Heat.
Fill.
Process.
Cool.
Repeat.
The house smelled permanently of tomatoes.
By the end, thirty-one jars stood on the pantry shelves.
The Farm Woman stared at them.
Her father stood behind her.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then he said:
“I was wrong.”
The Farm Woman turned.
“That quickly?”
“I can take it back.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Continue.”
Her father folded his arms.
“I thought the saved seed was sentimental.”
“It was.”
“And practical.”
“Apparently.”
“I thought buying starts was easier.”
“It is.”
“I thought easier meant better.”
The Farm Woman looked toward the jars.
“Sometimes it does.”
“Not this time.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Your grandmother would be unbearable.”
The Farm Woman laughed.
“She’d tell everyone she knew all along.”
“She did that even when she didn’t.”
They smiled.
Then the father picked up one jar.
“How much seed did you save?”
The Farm Woman looked at him.
“A lot.”
“Good.”
The three neighboring farmers came by two days later.
The Farm Woman was stacking crates.
They stood at the fence.
The oldest pointed toward the jars.
“That your entire harvest?”
The Farm Woman looked at him.
“No.”
The second farmer laughed.
“You’ve turned into a cannery.”
“Temporary problem.”
The oldest crossed his arms.