The tomato plants have gone sparse and yellow, with a few Amish Paste and Nyagous hanging on for dear life, and a few green ones desperately trying to ripen before the first frost. That might be sooner than expected--last night it was 47 degrees. The few cherry tomatoes we missed are splitting and rotting on the vine. Mark strongly believes that our tomatoes peaked so early because of the red mulch, and he very well may be correct.
The chard is still going strong, and we have a few scallions left in the ground, but the real surprise has been the carrots, which are so tender and sweet, unlike any I've ever brought home from the store. We just pull them out of the ground as we need them. So far the only way we've eaten them is to clean them and snack on them raw and unadulterated (that sounds dirty, doesn't it?) because they're so delicious.
We picked our lonely delicata squash, which got to be about the size of a grapefruit, but we haven't eaten it yet. Not sure if the two tiny melons will ever mature, but we're waiting it out a little longer. The fingerling potatoes produced a couple of pounds, but it wasn't the bountiful harvest we'd hoped for.
This time of year is so sad, with everything winding down. So why do I love it so?