This week, we lost nearly every tomato plant on Black Sheep Farms to late season blight.

Although we grow many types of vegetables and flowers, tomatoes are the stars. The magical combination of acids, sugars, colors and summer creates a legacy that makes us ache during their seasonal absence. In December, we dream of their luscious flavors as we circle old favorites and hopeful contenders in the catalogs. In February and March, we plant each tiny seed and watch as they create tiny sprouts. We transplant them to bigger containers and watch the weather reports, wondering when we can expect the last frost in May. We bring them outdoors during the day to harden their bodies and spirits and protect them at night in the safe, temperate greenhouse. We plant them near a strong trellis so they have the chance to grow up, literally. As they stray and sprawl on the ground, we tie them to the wire trellis so they can reach for the sun.

And, most years, we delight in the fruit that each tomato plant bears. We haul away overflowing boxes. We sell them to strangers and friends, knowing the joy that each person will have as they bite, slice, stew or sauce. We brew the tomatoes into a flavor-filled concoction that we freeze and enjoy as the winter winds howl.

Except this year. Late season blight is a merciless killer, and it is unstoppable. Blight is a fungal disease, and it is augmented by the cool, damp weather we have experienced this summer. Instead of the hot, humid but dry weather we expected, the summer has been rainy and temperate. Had we known, we would have planted cool-weather crops like spinach, chard, even lettuce. But there is no way to predict the weather, no matter what the television forecasters would have you believe.

So this year, we are practically without tomatoes. We planted fourteen varieties, from Golden Currant cherry to Crnkovic Yugoslavian, from Nebraska Wedding to Black Krim. Almost all dead. And as much as we suffer personally, it pains us to turn up short for the members of our CSA. We have invested so much of ourselves in this relationship, and it hurts to realize that the gifts we had planned to give have disappeared. At the start of the CSA, we explained that we all share in the successes and the shortcomings of the season. If we have an abundant year, we all benefit. If the year is difficult, we all have less than expected.

The reality is much more difficult than the theory. Struggling with the unexpected death of our tomatoes has been hard on us, but we’ve had so much support from friends who have shared kind words or brought us tomatoes of their own. It turns out that the community that we have fostered together has been the true gift of summer. We are grateful for each of you.

-Brian