06/03/2026
Why Growing 69 Tomato Varieties for Two People Is Not Crazy
By Laurrie Piland
This year, without fail, when someone discovers that I'm growing 69 varieties of tomatoes, they ask the same question:
"Why do you need that many tomatoes for only two people?"
The short answer is that I don't.
The long answer is that I don't need 69 varieties any more than someone needs 14 fishing rods, 200 pairs of shoes, six guitars, three motorcycles, or a garage full of tools they haven't touched since Y2K. Yet, somehow, nobody bats an eye at those hobbies. Grow a few dozen tomato varieties, though, and suddenly people start looking at you like you're building a launch facility for vegetables.
First of all, not all tomatoes are the same. They were not created equal.
I know this comes as shocking news to people whose entire tomato experience consists of buying a pinkish-red sphere at the grocery store that tastes vaguely of disappointment.
There are giant beefsteaks, tiny cherries, paste tomatoes, oxhearts, dwarfs, micro dwarfs, striped tomatoes, fuzzy tomatoes, green tomatoes, blue tomatoes, black tomatoes, white tomatoes, and tomatoes that look like they were designed by a committee that couldn't agree on anything.
Each variety has its own flavor, growth habit, history, productivity, and personality. Growing tomatoes isn't just growing food. It's collecting living history.
Some people collect baseball cards.
I collect seeds from dead Ukrainian grandmothers and obscure African villages.
One of us is preserving genetic diversity.
Second, growing a lot of varieties is actually practical.
Every season is different. One year it's too cold. The next year it's too hot. Then it rains for six weeks straight. Then it doesn't rain at all. Gardening is essentially a long-running science experiment conducted by an increasingly unstable weather system.
Some varieties thrive in cool weather. Some handle heat. Some laugh in the face of disease. Some collapse dramatically because a cloud passed overhead and hurt their feelings.
When you grow a lot of varieties, you spread your risk. If ten fail, ten struggle, twenty do reasonably well, and twenty-nine decide to become tomato-producing machines, you're still eating tomatoes.
Third, I like knowing what actually performs in my garden.
Seed catalogs are written by marketing departments. Every tomato in a catalog is apparently "exceptionally productive," "disease resistant," and "bursting with flavor." The same goes for tomato websites.
According to seed catalogs, every tomato should be carrying a tiny trophy.
Reality is somewhat different.
The only way to know whether a variety deserves space next year is to grow it, evaluate it, and determine whether it earns another chance or gets voted off the island.
Fourth, growing many varieties helps preserve heirlooms.
Thousands of tomato varieties have disappeared over the years. The only reason many still exist is because gardeners kept growing them and saving seeds.
Every rare tomato variety has a story behind it. Sometimes it came from a family that saved it for generations. Sometimes it came from another country. Sometimes it came from a gardener who spent years developing it.
If nobody grows them, they're gone.
I happen to think preserving diversity is a better use of space than another lawn that requires constant mowing and contributes absolutely nothing except giving the deer a place to hold meetings.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, gardening is supposed to be enjoyable.
Not everything has to be optimized.
Not every hobby has to make perfect economic sense.
Nobody asks birdwatchers how many birds they actually need.
Nobody asks knitters how many scarves they can physically wear at once.
Nobody asks stamp collectors why they need stamps from countries that no longer exist.
Yet tomato growers are constantly expected to justify their choices.
The answer is simple.
I grow 69 varieties because I enjoy growing 69 varieties.
I enjoy comparing them.
I enjoy learning about them.
I enjoy preserving them.
I enjoy sharing them.
So, if that means I occasionally find myself looking out at the garden talking to a tomato plant like it owes me money, then so be it.
The truth is that growing 69 tomato varieties for two people isn't crazy.
Growing only two varieties when there are thousands available is the real mystery.
But, then again, I'm the person who can identify a tomato variety from twenty feet away while forgetting why I walked into the kitchen, so perhaps I'm not the best judge of normal.
