You might recall Tomatoey, the sizable heirloom tomato plant that traveled in a moving-truck cab from its prime spot of full sun on our Baton Rouge deck, to become the centerpiece of my fire escape garden here in Brooklyn.
The fire escape gets considerably less sun than our deck in Baton Rouge, or as my hubbs sometimes calls it, "back home."
And so the esteemed Tomatoey was less forthcoming with fruit once he landed here. The dozen or so tomatoes already in progress ripened into succulent specimens, and then...nothing. Plenty of blossoms, but for months, they turned out nothing. He even yellowed and I nursed him back to full green, and still: zip.
I couldn't help seeing Tomatoey as an echo of our lack of job-hunting success thus far in New York 2.0.