Need any tomatoes? ~ September 6, 2006

David Heiller

I’ve been asking that question a lot lately.

We’ve got a bumper crop of BHN665 toma­toes. That’s the very ordinary name for the vari­ety I bought from Johnny’s Seeds. It’s not a typi­cal tomato name. Some people will only plant a tomato with “beef” in its name. Beefy Boy, Beefy Girl, Big Beefy Momma.

David and a small portion of our bumper crop.

But good old BHN665 came through big time. I planted the seeds in March, then transplanted them about three times. They fought through some blossom end rot during the dry spell, and now they are pretty much thick and perfect.

We’ve frozen a lot, and we’ve made two dif­ferent kinds of salsa too, with more, much more, waiting to be made.

I’ve given a lot away too. It’s a lot of fun to do that. Some people really appreciate it.

Jane Palen, who also works at The Argus, is one of them. She gets excited, and even describes what she will do them. “Why, I think I’ll slice them up, and layer them with fresh mozzarella. Then I’ll drizzle on some olive oil, and sprinkle chopped fresh basil on top;” she’ll say in a very refined voice, just short of an English accent.

I haven’t done a lot of drizzling in my life, so I have to take her word on that.

She took another batch home, then talked about cutting up two cups of tomatoes and making a Greek pasta toss. That sounded more like an Olympic event than something to eat. But I’m sure it will be good. It’s an honor for my BHN665 tomatoes to be treated thusly.

That’s the thing about summer tomatoes. They are good just about any old way. High cuisine or low. In a casserole, as goulash, on a piece of toast with cheese on top. As fresh salsa. Or just cut up on a plate, dashed with salt — that goes good with any supper.

But enough is enough. I have more than I can use. So before familiarity breeds contempt, I’ve been giving tomatoes away. And I’m finding other people in the same predicament.

I asked Diana, another co-worker, if she could use any. “No!” she said, as if Dr. Mengele had just tapped into a root canal.

Vi Lange had a similar response when I asked her. I was worried for a second that she might throw a double chicken wing on me like she taught to all those wrestling sons of hers. But she caught herself in time, and politely allowed as she had plenty of tomatoes, thank you very much.

Dawn Schuttemeier didn^’t need any either. She had tons from her sister Robin, and her stepdad Roger had so many from Al Hues­mann, who has a tomato patch that can be seen from the Space Shuttle, that he brought bags and bags home and said to Mom, “Let’s can tomatoes tonight,” and Mom said are you crazy, but she^’s canning them, so no Dave, I don^’t need any tomatoes.

OK, sheesh.

The one I was really worried about was little Cassie Heimer, who stood on the edge of County Road 3 in Brownsville the other day holding a sign saying “Tomatoes for sale:” That^’s not a safe thing to do when there is a surplus of tomatoes. She survived, luckily.

Tomato season will soon pass. That’s the other interesting thing about tomatoes. They are like that heat wave we had this summer. We get a little tired of it, but come winter, our outlook will do a 180. Our day dreams will turn to warm weather, and fresh summer tomatoes.

Move over Daniel, the lion’s den is full ~ August 21, 1986

David Heiller

A friend of ours asked my wife if he could bring his three kids over for two days and two nights of babysitting this week. Cindy asked me if I would mind. I told her no, that should be fine. I would be at work during the day and most of the night too, since this is Askov Fair Week.

“Oh by the way, honey,” she added nonchalantly, “I’ve got a meeting in Minneapolis on Monday. But I’ll get Glenda to babysit.”

“That shouldn’t be any problem, I replied, thinking of Glenda, poor Glenda, who has five kids of her own. If anyone could handle five more kids, Glenda could.

Two of the usual suspects

So our friend’s three kids arrived Sunday night, and our friend drove off to his job in St. Paul with a smile on his face, a smile only a single parent can have who is returning to work without three of his kids. Inside the house, the volume on the kids went up 150 percent, which is the increase in lung power we suddenly had inherited. But I didn’t mind. Noah woke up, and came downstairs to join in. Malika started crying in her crib. Our two oldest guests headed for the sandbox in the twilight to fill up on sand.

But this didn’t bother me. Cindy and Glenda could handle it tomorrow. I’d probably be working late anyway, maybe even late enough to miss the Witching Hour—supper, baths, teeth-brushing, sandy feet, 150 percent volume.

Cindy and I slept on the hide-a-bed Sunday night, after the kids wore themselves into sleep upstairs where we usually abide. I slept well, not worrying about the kids, thinking more about Danish Days than babysitting. At breakfast the next morning, I asked Cindy, “Oh by the way, when is your meeting today?”

“Oh, ah, 4:30,” Cindy answered.

“4:30 this afternoon?^” I said.

“Yeah,” Cindy answered, hearing the tone of fear in my voice, but not acting surprised.

“You mean, I have to come home from work at 4:30?”

“Hu-huh. Unless you want Glenda to have them during supper.” She knew what my answer to that would be. Not even the Romans would have done that to Daniel in the lion’s den.

“And you won’t be home until...” My voice trailed off.

“After the kids are in bed,” she finished.

I drove quickly to Glenda’s house after work on Monday, thinking of Daniel in the lion’s den. “How did it go?” I asked, Searching her face for bruise marks or other signs of babysitter abuse.

“Just fine,” she answered. There were no bruise marks. She wasn’t even sweating.

Things are always more complicated with kids around... but FIVE?!

As she threw the kids in the car, she said, “You’ll do fine, David.” I hadn’t even asked her, but she knew the challenge ahead.

The challenge started with supper. Cindy had made a hotdish, complete with tomatoes, zucchini, onions, cheese, and bulgar The kids just looked at the heap of red food on their plates. Seth, the oldest at nine, ate two bites, which is two more than the other four. They sat there and stared at their plates, their lips hinged tight. I knew what a good parent should say.

Something like, “Try one bite, then you can be excused.^” Or “Eat some, or you can’t have a snack later.” Or even, “Shovel it down or you’re sleeping in the outhouse—bottom floor.”

Instead, just said, “Get out of here,” and watched them scramble for the door. I thought the supper was great, and ate all their leftovers.

Once outside, I let the kids go, and watched them from the kitchen window while I did the dishes. First Matt pulled Noah in the wagon, then Noah pulled Matt. Seth and Leah collected apples from the apple tree. Leah shook from the bottom, until she broke off a branch. I went to the window and said, “no more shaking.” Then they grabbed the other wagon and took turns pulling Mollie. Seth climbed the maple tree by the house to get our cat. He called out to me, “Dave, your cat’s stuck in the tree.” I went outside. The cat was fine, but Seth needed help getting down. So Leah climbed the tree too. At that point I knew I would make it, because I literally had Leah up a tree. For a split second the thought crossed my mind to leave her there, but I went back outside and rescued her.

Bedtime went in shifts. First, at 7:15 Mollie got a bath, tore up a book, and fell into her crib. Then Matt and Noah look double baths in the kitchen sink, side-by-side. Then books, a couple songs, collapse into bed. Finally Seth and Leah washed their hands and feet of sand, put on their pajamas, and read a book, then staggered to their upstairs room at 8:45. It took an hour and a half from start to finish, but amazingly, it was OK. In fact, with the hugs at bedtime from this motley crew, it was almost worth it.

Cindy drove up from her meeting five minutes after the last ones were in bed. That’s what you call good timing. She asked how it all went. I wanted to ask her, “How would you like to have three more kids?” But sanity got a grip on me and I answered, “Just fine.”

Even Daniel survived in the lion’s den.