This post is number 33 in a series.
We were visiting a friend who is responsible for a large garden. He had to check the greenhouses. Plural. In one, row upon row of seedlings, including many tomatoes. I cannot see tomato seedlings but that I have to brush my hand over the tips. My science brain knows that this helps to produce sturdy little plantlets. My reptile brain revels in the smell of bruised tomato leaves. Drinks it in. There was talk of how I have to have a greenhouse again. I churlishly rejected it. It isn’t going to happen, not any time soon. Back home, I pruned the potted lemon.