This is our summer of cherry tomatoes. Today you harvested one hundred and fifty-seven. Last week nine hundred twenty-one. Midsummer you laid thirty-three thousand pennies in rows and glued them to the floor. As a child, sent to bed early by responsible parents on hot summer nights while the neighborhood kids still kicked the can outside, you counted — picking up where you left off the night before — to a million. You count and count, testing your considerable powers of estimation. Meanwhile, the roguish tomato plants have reseeded themselves across the yard.  They have sprung up like dandelions along our driveway and next to the chickens’ pen.  They have engulfed the two raised beds and overtaken the basil and spinach.  They have grown six feet high.  “Can we eat something without tomatoes?” Caroline asks, but the answer is no.  Tomatoes in our black beans and rice, tomatoes in our quiche, tomatoes on platters with bread and cheese. Winter is a few months away. Tonight we’re having tomatoes. When we renovated this kitchen, where a bowl of tomatoes sits on the soapstone counter next to a tray of hens’ eggs and a dish of farm-share garlic and onions, I measured every cabinet twice and planned every drawer, but the tomatoes weren’t on the blueprints.  They are more than we asked or paid for. They are more than I counted on.