Pollinate Like a Doula
Last year was my very first attempt at planting a small herb garden — plus a couple of tomatoes and peppers (bell peppers and jalapeños) because apparently, I thought I was suddenly capable of running a miniature farm. I bought this four‑foot‑long, two‑foot‑wide wooden raised garden bed for the herbs and peppers, feeling very “look at me, I’m a gardener now.” The tomatoes got their own pots because I bought them already established and about a foot tall, and I didn’t want to be responsible for killing something that had clearly worked so hard to get that far without me.
Naturally, I placed the garden bed and pots inside my screened‑in porch on the back deck — because in my mind, the outside world was full of bugs, birds, squirrels, raccoons, and possibly tomato‑loving woodland creatures waiting to snatch my produce like it was a Black Friday sale. The herbs were thriving, and a few weeks later, little flowers started popping up on the tomatoes and peppers. I sat out there kvelling over them, sipping a glass of wine like I was admiring my firstborn children.
As I sat there, basking in my newfound plant‑mom glory, it hit me. OH NO. I put these tomatoes and peppers in the screened‑in porch… and now bees can’t pollinate them. I panicked. I thought, “Great. Now I have to move them outside and risk them being eaten alive by the entire cast of Bambi.”
But then — as I sipped my wine — I got a brainstorm. I ran inside, grabbed a tiny little paintbrush (the kind you’d find in a paint‑by‑numbers kit), and I lightly touched the inside of each flower. I went from one to the next like a busy little bee (pun absolutely intended), pollinating them myself. And honestly? I was proud. I got a lot of cherry tomatoes that year, one regular tomato, one small bell pepper, and one small jalapeño (but I planted those too late). Still, I was thrilled because clearly my idea worked.
Last year was my test garden, because I do not exactly have the greenest thumb. Every time I saw more flowers, I repeated the paintbrush routine. And I was happy to do it — I had results!
While I was talking on the phone to Coco — my book collaborator and blog partner — I mentioned that when I get back from vacation on June 18th, I’ll plant everything the same way and do the paintbrush trick again. Coco paused and said, “Paintbrush trick?”
So I told her the entire story. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to pass out. When she finally calmed down, she said:
“Michele… tomatoes and peppers are self‑pollinating.”
As in… they do it themselves. As in… they don’t need bees. They don’t need butterflies. They don’t need my tiny paintbrush. They don’t even really need me. Except water. They do need water. So there’s that.
I went silent. Who knew? I didn’t. I was so quiet she had to ask if I was still there. I finally said:
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s just that this conversation suddenly turned into one of those moments where you realize you’ve been doing WAY too much for something that apparently never needed my help in the first place, ya know?!”
I mean, there I was all summer, meticulously pollinating my own tomatoes and peppers like a dedicated plant midwife. Gently touching each little flower like I was performing IVF and praying for results.
When I tell you, my dear readers, that I was seriously committed to this paintbrush thing every morning…
With a tiny paintbrush. Carefully. Proudly.
Then Coco says, “Oh stop, you’re not an idiot — it’s not like you grew up in the country farming! You lived in Brooklyn, New York.”
All they needed was a little vibration…
A breeze. A bump. A squirrel with an attitude problem.
But they certainly didn’t need me acting like a porch‑side fertility specialist, swirling my brush around like Bob Ross painting happy little trees. There I was, silently questioning every gardening decision I’ve ever made… which clearly wasn’t many.
So if you need me, I’ll be over here letting my plants handle their own business while I retire from my short‑lived career as a tomato and pepper doula.
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