Twenty years ago or so, while living in Freedom, Indiana, My sweet hubby and I were in search of propane to fuel our brand new used propane refrigerator. We were directed to the house of a man who lived, like us, in the middle of nowhere. His name was Kenny Freeman. We found him, and pulled our tank out of whatever vehicle we were driving at the time. (Was it the Volvo wagon?) Either before or after filling our tank, we began discussing Gardening. Joe and I were in the middle of planting our first really huge garden. Kenny took us on a walk through his garden, all the while sharing tidbits of valuable gardening wisdom of the type that only an old farmer seems to compile. (Did you know that if you wipe your shovel off with an old oil rag every time you use it and store it inside it will last forever and never rust?) As we wended our way through his beautiful rows and trellises I came across a lovely yellow cherry tomato plant. When I asked Kenny about it, he plucked a couple of fruits from the plant and handed them to me, admonishing me NOT to eat them. Cruelty of cruelties! How COULD he deny me the exquisite pleasure of relishing these warm golden delights???
