About two and a half months ago I put six tomato plants in the ground. For several weeks now, the plants, which have long outgrown their cages, have been heavy with fruit. And yet, not a single tomato has reached ripeness. Each morning I go out to the garden and sit with my tomato plants, carefully examining the dozens of green orbs hanging heavily from their vines, paying especial attention to the monstrosities that now number well into the twenties on the Yellow Brandywine plant, gently checking the green varieties for firmness and scrutinizing the striped and yellow varieties for shifts in hue. And I might venture to predict that, by the end of next week, I will be eating my very own homegrown heirloom tomatoes. Hopefully. In the mean time, however, I wait.
Having accomplished the remarkable feat of getting all my grad school application documents in by the posted deadline, I'm now beset with the rather undesirable task of checking my email inbox obsessively for updates from the Office of Admissions. With only a little more than a month until classes begin for the fall quarter, I dislike having to be kept...waiting. Unlike my situation with the tomato plants, it is not altogether assured that my efforts to get accepted into my desired program will come to fruition. And yet, like the mysterious chemical processes by which a plant absorbs light and nutrients and produces fruit, it's out of my hands. I am bemusedly grateful that, in less than a week, I managed to get this far.
