Up in the heirloom

I can't grow tomatoes to save my life. I've tried to an extent that scared people. I've spread compost, pulled weeds and watered vines, my face redder than my tomatoes would ever be, confident that healthy, robust beefsteaks, san marzanos and early girls would thrive in profusion. But the tomatoe-growing gene skipped me. Somewhwere, generations of green-thumbed ancestors watch, clucking in disapproval.

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