My ripe tomatoes

With about a week left of summer it’s safe to say that I’ve spent a good portion of it watering, fertilizing, and gossiping with a couple of tomato plants—Parker and Phoebe—all for what looks like about $3 worth of tomatoes.

Now I’m not complaining. There’s a little satisfaction knowing that I’ve grown something that will actually be edible . . well, uh, maybe edible. The verdict is still out.

Hey, I’ve kept the bastards alive, along with some annoying geraniums in my kitchen windows, and flower boxes tenuously tethered along the front windows of my 3rd floor apartment. Sure I’ve watered a passerby or two, and even a cop on one occasion, (it was like scene from Sesame Street) but all-in-all I think I’ve done my Irish potato farmer/Mexican migrant worker ancestors proud.

And leaning out my bathroom window to water the girls each evening (they sit happily on my fire escape) gives me an excellent chance to keep a close eye on my beloved Chicago skyline, making sure that Osama Bin Laden isn’t rappelling down the Sears Tower.