2020 is only about half-cooked, but I am confident I know how I will remember the end of this decade — and that is as the Year of the Tomato.

I have had a vegetable garden with multiple tomato plants most years since the mid-1980s, inspired by my father’s ability to turn a tennis court in disrepair into a producer of vegetables ranging from asparagus to zucchini by using raised beds, my preferred method as well.

My garden, of course, includes more than just tomatoes. I prefer to keep it simple, going with the vegetables that I enjoy, but also ones that have prospered historically in my patch of clay. This year, it includes cucumbers, okra, squash, snap beans, zucchini and cantaloupe, which is a new addition. I thought I had a bell pepper planted, but for some reason it is producing jalapeno peppers.

The rest of the garden has only been so-so when it comes to production, but the cucumbers are coming on. I blame the honey bees, which haven’t been busy.

But enough on that; today’s is a feel-good story.

Never have I had a tomato crop as bountiful and robust, with the fruit — yes, that’s right — so succulent. I have no explanation as to why the crop is booming, but this is certain: It is not a result of anything that I did well.

Perhaps tomatoes thrive during pandemics or times of racial unrest, or perhaps it’s the 87 inches of rain we had in May and June, but my tomatoes — Big Boys, Beefsteaks, Early Birds, Bonnies, Celebrities and on and on — are thriving. If I have a strategy, it is to flood the garden with a lot of plants of all varieties — and take note of those that thrive from one year to inform me on what to plant the next year. This year, Bonnies and Big Boys are making a bid for Most Favored status in the event there is a 2021.

Not counting the cherry tomatoes, which are too numerous to count, I have 27 tomatoes on my kitchen counter, and about half are ready to consume.

My diet in recent weeks has included a lot of ham and turkey subs, BLT’s, tuna melts, mater sandwiches and when the scales advise, salads. And yes, don’t even ask: Although I was born up north, in Chapel Hill, I am a Southerner, and my mayo for those BLT’s and mater sandwiches is Duke’s.

It has been suggested that I try frying green tomatoes, but I have never fried anything in my life except a Volvo engine and my forehead while golfing or fishing, so that’s a nonstarter. It was also suggested that I take up canning, but I hate to surrender my Man Card this deep into life.

It has been a daily challenge staying in front of the crop and not ending up with, yep, rotten tomatoes — one of life’s saddest sights.

Tomatoes, in case you don’t know, have a plethora of health benefits, including being loaded with vitamins, being great for the heart, protecting against cancer, improving eyesight, and even helping with digestion. But I would eat them if they had the nutritional value of a chocolate chip cookie.

I have posted photos of my tomatoes a few times on Facebook, and the last time I did so I included this comment: “If people are getting sick of me posting photos of my tomatoes, then I don’t blame you.” So far there have been no emoticons that display a middle finger, but I did notice that my number of Facebook friends is down by three.

A Facebook friend attached to that thread a graphic that explained how people derive power — status was listed first, money second, followed by the ability to grow tomatoes, so obviously the order was random. Whatever status I had as editor of The Robesonian has gone poof, and I spent 36 years as a journalist, which means I have no money. So I am all in with the tomatoes.

The downside of posting photos of scrumptious tomatoes on Facebook is the risk of someone asking if they can have a couple. When that happens, I am careful not to respond to the comment or acknowledge it so that that the person doesn’t expect a delivery.

There are never that many tomatoes.

But if you would like a cucumber, PM me.