Patience is so hard.
I traded a basil plant at the end of May for two baby tomato plants, each about two inches tall. I carefully tended them, potted them first together in a pot on the balcony, then eventually separated them the way parents separate siblings who have grown too old to share a bedroom.
They grew up. They grew leafy. They had long tendrils of tomato vine with delicate foliage. But they didn't have any tomatoes.
The past few weeks, I have checked every day (sometimes, I confess, I checked too optimistically and more often than that) for evidence that the vines would give up luscious, red fruits. I checked the yellow flowers obsessively, looking for the telltale signs of plant pregnancy. No dice.
Today, I decided to rearrange the myriad pots of basil, mint, and tomatoes on our tiny balcony so that they all get a little different sun patch. I leaned in--my face about six inches from the flowers--and flicked my index finger just underneath.
Behold! A tiny green globe, about a centimeter in diameter.
I will get tomatoes yet!