who's growing?

Probably every farmer and gardener has pondered this at some point: We like to say "I grew that," whether it's an onion, a rose, an apple. But sometimes when someone looks at our produce and says, "You grew this amazing tomato!" it doesn't feel true at all. It's not true at all. The tomato grew itself. The seed of the tomato, which is a tiny, fuzzy, flat beige seed, felt water and warmth and sprouted. Cells multiplied and differentiated. Leaves proliferated, first the small seed leaves and then big feathery leaves. Roots spread out, chasing water and nutrients, first in the flat where we sowed the seed, then in a bigger plastic pot, then in the ground. Tomato plants are quite deep-rooted, for an annual vegetable. They send roots down about three feet. I would have a very hard time digging three feet down into our soil in the summer. The plant, driven by its own internal code and by weather and daylight and soil, put out star-shaped yellow flowers, many of which were pollinated. The fruit started to set at the base of the flower, and if the weather was warm and dry and the soil was rich with minerals and the plants got adequate water but not too much, then the tomato was picked and eaten and pronounced amazing. Frankly, even a mediocre tomato is amazing if you think about how it got here.