David, my gardener, has been skulking up to the covered front porch on a daily basis to leave half-ripened tomatoes on the rail, as a hedge against local birds who maraud the vines. There are beefsteak tomatoes, a dandy little sunny-yellow hybrid called a Lemon Boy, and the rare and wonderful Trimato whathefuckiia arlingtonensis.
I really couldn’t bring myself to eat the whole thing, though one of the lobes seemed sound enough for a douse with balsamic vinegar.
You don’t want to see the cucumbers. Trust me.