When I talked to my brother Bill that late July morning, he began rhapsodizing about the bountiful crop of vegetables growing in his garden at his home northwest of Chicago.
“It’s amazing! My tomatoes are at their best right now,” and he began to list four varieties ranging from those weighing more than a pound to the smallest, no bigger than a man’s fingernail.
“I can’t keep up with the cukes! The same with the zucchini. I pick the plants clean, and then when I go out the next morning, there’s another batch waiting to be picked.
“I’m packing a box of vegetables now. Going to ship it to Arizona. If I get the box to the post office in an hour, my friends will have it by Thursday. That way if they’re going away for the weekend, it won’t sit and spoil.
Then he began cataloging the items he was packing, interjecting how the unusually dry season there had affected each plant.
“And then I’m going to fill the box up with peaches.”
“Peaches? You had a good crop this year?”
“No, it’s too late for peaches here, and my peach trees never did produce a lot of fruit. A neighbor brought a crate down when he returned from upstate Michigan. They’re the best I’ve ever tasted!”
When he paused to take a breath, I quickly asked, “Bill if you‘re shipping your vegetables to friends in Arizona, how about shipping a box of them to your sister in Manhattan?”
“But you’ll have to be home to receive it!”
“And just where would I be going?” I asked, reminding him of the pandemic restrictions still in force here in New York.
The next time I called, there was a lot of background noise and it was hard to hear him. When I asked what it was he said, “I’m out in the garage rummaging for the right-size box for you.”
He began asking which and how many vegetables I’d like. “My green and red peppers this year were the best they’ve ever been. And the yellow ones were phenomenal. Sorry there aren’t any left.”
“Do you have any of the little ones? Last summer when I visited you, there was a small light green one that had just the right amount of heat. I chopped it and added it to my salad.”
“A jalapeno? I’ll check the garden to see if I still have one of those.”
I continued with my list. “Tomatoes! Every kind of tomato you have. And a couple of those Michigan peaches,” I added.
“Sorry, they’re all gone. But I do have some peach cobbler I made, though I’m not sure it would survive the trip.”
“That sounds so good! Give it a try.”
Bill ended our conversation by reminding me yet again when I had to be home to receive the perishables.
When the doorman called on the appointed day, he said, “The box seems to be leaking.”
I assumed the liquid was water leaking from an ice pack. When it was brought up to me, the box was soggy, the cardboard disintegrating with only the shipping tape giving it any shape. There was no need for scissors. As I began to tear it open I looked at my hands. They were red, looking as though I’d been through some kind of violent brawl. That wasn’t water. It was tomato juice.
Here’s what I pulled out of the falling apart box: four ears of sweet corn still in their bright green husks, two super-size zucchinis, two super-size summer squash, one giant cucumber with a mini one tucked near its side, five small “new” potatoes, one small jalapeno pepper, and four varieties of tomatoes, ranging in size from half-pounder to fingernail size.
I searched through the soggy remains of the box, my hands now a horrifying shade of red. The box had contained no peach cobbler, but it had been filled with a whole lot of homegrown love.