For the love of tomatoes

Tomatoes were my gateway drug. It seemed so harmless in the heady days when my gardening meant a few window boxes and some flowerpots on an urban rooftop. I could take them or leave them I told myself, though I liked growing my summer geraniums, lobelia, scented roses, climbing clematis: old school planting like the old couple who brought me up.

Tomatoes, though, were competitive. A few members of our Observer team sowed them. It was 2007. I was editor of this magazine. We showed off pictures of our seedlings as they grew into plants. We talked about the merits of different varieties (I was taken by Black Crimea). We were obsessed.

I wanted us to grow and dig together, outside the newsroom. I looked into guerrilla gardening. Then we found an old allotment, full of wire, glass and rubble. The work was hard. It often rained. Soon the team was just me and photographer Howard Sooley.

Howard was my gardening hero. He knew all the Latin names. He had shot the book of Derek Jarman’s Prospect Cottage. His dad grew good tomatoes. We have now shared a plot for more than 10 years.

Some experts may tell you to sow two or three seeds together and then save only the strongest. I think weaker plants (like people) will also thrive with love, sun, food and shelter.

Ironically there is blight on the allotment site. Tomatoes don’t do well. So now – if I am allowed – I grow a few plants on our rooftop among the flowerpots. I pick out the sucker side shoots and give them organic seaweed feed. Sometimes I just go outside to breathe in the leaves.

At the end of summer, I’ll pick the fruit, scatter with flakes of salt and thank the gardening gods – for the plot and the pleasures of home-grown food.

Morning by Allan Jenkins (4th Estate, £12.99) is £11.04 at guardianbookshop.com