Frost? Haven't Seen Her.

Pass the tomatoes.

Gardening draws your attention to the bigger picture of what nature is doing in a way like no other.

Sure, I suppose you could read tables of temperature data for fun, or follow news reports religiously, or listen to The SC Grower Exchange podcast by Clemson’s horticulture agents.

(Ok, I’m a nerd and I have occasionally done that last one, but mostly just to hear them ask for the expert opinion of my friend Tommy—@bilbo_bugginz—by calling him “Dr. Tom Bilbo”…which is who he is, of course, but it still sounds so official.)

Gardening makes the rhythm of it all come alive.

Our first frost in Greenville last year (2023) was on Halloween.

I remember distinctly because I harvested an absurd number of cosmos and zinnias and basil in the dark, at close to 10pm, when I realized it was going to get cold enough to kill them.

And my dear husband carted the lemon tree to its winter home in the garage by streetlight.

This year, I’m looking at tomato vines reborn on November 15.

I cut them back to just the fruiting clusters about a month ago, assuming frost would be here by the average date (today) at least.

But on we go. They started growing new fruiting shoots from just about every place I lopped off branch.

The changing seasons are predictable—and not. We ride the wave, but we don’t direct it.

I was annoyed reading a cozy season cookbook the other day that the salads called for cherry tomatoes. And then it occurred to me:

Oh well, this year, I could make them.

Maybe they wrote that book on a year that brought the average in.