Garden Postscript: Gardener, 3; Horned Devils, 0

July 4, 2009

I am obliged to suspend my customary political commentary in order to update my recent report of the pair of prolific tomato plants that had put on a spurt of unbounded growth in our absence out West...ctc

We had been home from vacation only a couple of days when we discovered, to our horror, that both of our luxuriant-looking tomato plants, the growth of which had so impressed us, had been largely stripped of their leaves overnight. The upper branches of each plant were denuded, and the lower leaves and blossoms were partially gone. Several of the green tomatoes, some nearly three inches in diameter, had been obviously gnawed away--some entirely, and others partially.

What had once been rampant, sprawling vines were now truncated skeletal stubs after a savage assault by malevolent agents of nature. Bugs were the prime suspects, and it took a careful stem-by-stem inspection to locate the culprits--a trio of fully mature, plump, tomato hornworms, each bigger than my ring finger. Decked in light-green vine-colored camouflage that would make a duck hunter envious, only the trail of their dark-green droppings on the leaves below betrayed their locations. Those greedy suckers were decimating every tender green morsel in their path, like a teenage boy wheeling around on one of those 360-degree riding mowers in the front yard.

Well, there is but one solution under the circumstances, and it is neither chemical nor biological--(note to the squeamish--better skip this part)--it requires the physical act of quickly plucking that horny dude right off the vine, grasping the squirmy mid-section firmly between the thumb and forefinger, and dashing it against the nearest hard surface, taking care to avoid the splatter. The execution must be swift and merciful, and done in one continuous motion, while ignoring the critter's surprisingly strong twisting feints back and forth with its juice-stained maw, as if it intended to gnaw off its captor's finger. Anything that can chow down on half a large green tomato probably should be avoided. There is no time to stop at that point to inspect the hornworm's curiously angular protruding horn or the exotic hash-marked white stripes that run the length of its pillow-like torso. After the down-stroke momentum had dashed the worm's billowing corpus against a drainage grate, all that remained was just a dark stain of green tomato spittle and a wad of bright-green skin.

The plants will survive, though their stumpy stems will take weeks to regenerate leaves and blossoms and, hopefully, more tomatoes. It is a natural process, and part of life's Great Scheme. In this foray into small-scale vegetable gardening, aside from the inconvenience and irritation we only lost a little time. In fact, the first large tomato will be fully ripe in a day or so. But it left me with an additional perspective--if one can feel personal affront from the abrupt attack on a small garden by marauding hornworms, how must the Arkansas farmer feel when a hailstorm or a flood wipes out an entire crop just before the harvest? How little we understand about the risk-laden existence of those who depend on the soil for a livelihood, and the multiple factors beyond their control that they face every day!

An interesting sidebar to this adventure cropped up as I was trying to find out what moth the tomato hornworm turns into (it is the large and exotic-looking sphinx moth, sometimes known as the hummingbird moth or tobacco moth--you may remember a similar moth from the movie "Silence of the Lambs").

I came across a web site from Toronto, Canada, entitled "Bert Christensen's Weird and Different Recipes" which included a recipe for "fried green tomato hornworms." Inspired by Fannie Flagg's memorable book, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, they almost sound worth a try. At the risk of totally grossing out the reader, here's the recipe:

3 tablespoons olive oil

16 tomato hornworms

4 medium green tomatoes, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds

Salt and pepper to taste

White cornmeal

In a large skillet or wok, heat the oil. Then lightly fry the hornworms, about 4 minutes, taking care not to rupture the cuticles of each insect under high heat. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside.

Season tomato rounds with salt and pepper, then coat with cornmeal on both sides.

In a large skillet, fry tomatoes until lightly browned on both sides

Top each round with 2 fried tomato hornworms.

Garnish the paired hornworms with a single basil leaf.

Yield: 4 servings

It will be necessary to sacrifice a few tomato plants to the hornworms to harvest enough of those squirmy delights. I consider myself a reasonably open-minded exploratory eater, having sampled fried grasshoppers and chocolate-covered ants, but I can't spare any more tomato plants. If anyone is willing to sacrifice some tomato plants for the benefit of scientific culinary experimentation, and is brave enough to try this dish, call me--I am willing to sample.

Enjoy!

Charlie Crow © July 4, 2009