Why My Dad Grew Too Many Tomatoes (And Why I Do the Same)

Every summer, my dad planted tomatoes. Not a reasonable amount—like two or three plants. No, he planted at least eight. Sometimes twelve. Our backyard was a jungle of tomato plants by July, sprawling and tangled and producing fruit faster than we could eat it.

The kitchen counter would be covered in tomatoes. Big beefsteaks, tiny cherry tomatoes, oddly shaped heirlooms that looked like they’d been through something. My mom would make 番茄炒蛋 (tomato and egg stir-fry) three times a week. We’d give bags of tomatoes to neighbors. We’d eat tomato sandwiches for lunch.

And still, there were too many.

I used to think it was excessive. Why plant so many when we couldn’t eat them all? Why turn the backyard into a tomato farm when you could just buy them at the store?

Now I’m the dad. And this summer, I planted ten tomato plants.

I finally get it.

It’s Not Really About the Tomatoes

Don’t get me wrong—homegrown tomatoes are objectively better than store-bought ones. The flavor is richer, the texture is firmer, and there’s something deeply satisfying about eating something you grew yourself.

But that’s not why suburban dads plant too many tomatoes.

It’s because growing tomatoes is one of the few things you can control.

You can’t control your job, your commute, or whether your kid gets invited to birthday parties. You can’t control the housing market, your health insurance premiums, or the endless stream of emails that never stop.

But tomatoes? You plant the seed, water it, stake it up, and watch it grow. You see the yellow flowers turn into tiny green fruit. You check on them every evening after work. You pick them when they’re ripe.

It’s predictable in a world that isn’t.

The Ritual of It

My dad wasn’t a “gardener” in the hobby sense. He didn’t read gardening magazines or join plant clubs. He just grew tomatoes. Every spring, without fail.

He’d start seeds indoors in March, nursing them under a fluorescent light in the basement. By May, he’d transplant them outside, staking each one carefully with bamboo poles and twine. He’d check on them every evening after work, sometimes just standing there, hands on his hips, surveying his tomato empire like a general inspecting troops.

He never said it, but I think that evening walk to the garden was his version of meditation. Ten minutes of quiet before dinner, checking for pests, adjusting stakes, maybe pulling a weed or two. No one asking him for anything. Just him and the plants.

Now I do the same thing. After the kids are in bed and the dishes are done, I’ll go outside and check on my tomatoes. I’ll look for ripe ones, adjust a stake, pinch off suckers. It’s calming in a way I didn’t expect.

The Generosity of Excess

When you have too many tomatoes, you give them away. To neighbors, coworkers, friends, the mailman. Anyone who will take them.

My dad would show up at family gatherings with grocery bags full of tomatoes. “Take some,” he’d insist. “I have too many.” And people would, because free tomatoes are hard to turn down.

I do this now too. I’ve given tomatoes to my next-door neighbor, my kid’s teacher, the guy who fixed our fence. It’s a small thing, but it feels good. Like you’re contributing something tangible to the world.

There’s also something inherently hopeful about giving away tomatoes. You’re saying, “I grew this. I have more than I need. You should have some.”

It’s the opposite of scarcity thinking. It’s abundance, right there in a plastic bag.

The Asian Dad Tomato Gene

I’m convinced there’s something specifically Asian American about the too-many-tomatoes phenomenon. Maybe it’s the immigrant work ethic—if you’re going to do something, you do it all the way. Maybe it’s the cultural value of self-sufficiency—why buy something when you can grow it yourself?

Or maybe it’s just that a lot of Asian dads grew up in agricultural communities, where growing food was normal, not a hobby. My dad’s family had a vegetable garden in Taiwan. His dad grew tomatoes. His grandfather grew tomatoes.

So of course he grew tomatoes. And now I grow tomatoes. It’s tradition masquerading as a backyard project.

What I’m Teaching My Kids (I Think)

My kids don’t care about tomatoes yet. They’ll eat cherry tomatoes like candy, but they don’t appreciate the work that goes into them. They don’t understand why I’m out there every evening, tying up vines and pulling off hornworms.

But they watch. They see me checking on the plants. They help me water sometimes. They know that the tomatoes on the counter didn’t come from the store—they came from the backyard.

Maybe someday they’ll plant too many tomatoes too. Or maybe they won’t. Either way, I hope they remember that their dad cared about growing things. That he found satisfaction in small, quiet acts. That he gave away the excess because there was enough to share.

The Lesson I Didn’t Know I Needed

Here’s what I’ve learned from planting too many tomatoes:

It’s okay to do something just because it makes you happy. You don’t need a reason beyond “I like doing this.”

Excess isn’t always bad. Having more than you need means you can share.

Some traditions are worth keeping. Even if they’re a little silly. Even if your spouse rolls her eyes at the number of tomato plants you ordered this year.

The process matters more than the product. Sure, I get tomatoes out of this. But really, it’s about the ritual. The routine. The few minutes of peace in the backyard while the sun sets and the tomatoes grow.

Why I’ll Plant Too Many Again Next Year

Because my dad did. Because it’s grounding. Because homegrown tomatoes taste better. Because my kids might remember this someday.

And because when life feels chaotic and uncontrollable, at least I can grow tomatoes.

Even if there are too many.

Especially if there are too many.