I Tried to Start a Garden and Accidentally Created a Cult

I just wanted tomatoes.

That’s it. Juicy, red, Instagrammable tomatoes. The kind you slice open and say “Wow” to yourself like you’ve just unlocked a secret level in adulthood.

Instead, I accidentally started a tomato-based cult.

Let’s rewind.

It began innocently enough. I had just moved to a sleepy neighborhood called “Whispering Pines,” which sounds peaceful but is really code for “Everyone judges your recycling bin.”

One morning, fueled by Pinterest and two-and-a-half cups of ambition, I declared:

“This year, I’m growing my own food.”

My roommate, Kelsey, raised an eyebrow. “You cried last week because your basil died.”

“That Basil lacked discipline,” I said with quiet fury. “Tomatoes will be different.”

They were.

Just not in the way I hoped.

I bought the seeds, the soil, and the compost made from “ethically massaged earthworms.” I even got gloves with claws. Garden Wolverine.

Every day, I watered. I whispered motivational quotes. I may or may not have played Enya.

And soon… they grew. Oh, they GREW.

Like, aggressively.

My tomatoes were the size of grapefruits. Deep red. Glowing slightly at night. One neighbor called them “unnervingly powerful.”

I named the biggest one “Tomathan.”

People started noticing. A local jogger stopped to compliment them. The mailman took a selfie. Kelsey began referring to them as “the crimson overlords.”

Then I made my mistake.

I put a sign in the yard that read:

“WITNESS THE GLORY OF TOMATHAN.”

For irony.

For fun.

For the ✨vibes✨.

But the next morning, there were three strangers in my yard. Kneeling.

One was humming.

“I saw the sign,” one whispered. “Is this… the place?”

“The place for what?” I asked, holding my coffee like a shield.

“Revelation,” said the tallest one. “Tomathan calls. We answer.”

I laughed. I really did. But they didn’t.

Instead, they returned that night.

With candles.

Within a week, my backyard was hosting what I can only describe as vegetable-themed spiritual potlucks.

People brought offerings—organic fertilizer, sun lamps, and a poem titled “Ode to the Vine Divine.”

One man offered a goat. I said, “Sir, this is suburban Virginia.”

And Tomathan? He thrived.

Weirder still, my followers (yes, I now had “followers”) swore he glowed brighter when we sang to him. Which, yes, became a thing. Thursday Tomato Chants.

I tried to stop it. Truly.

I even gave a speech.

“Friends, neighbors, extremely devoted strangers—I think this may have gone too far. It’s just a tomato.”

Gasps. One woman fainted into a kiddie pool filled with compost.

I was voted down. Apparently, this was now a democracy. Tomato-cracy?

Kelsey was no help. She leaned into it.

She made merch.

T-shirts that read:

“Tomathan is my Co-pilot.”

“Fruit of Truth™”

And, disturbingly, “Sauce Us, Oh Lord.”

She sold them at the farmer’s market and made $472 in a single day.

We started receiving letters from other tomato cults, mostly friendly, one vaguely threatening (“Your fruit is impressive. Watch your vines.”)

By midsummer, I had

A tomato-shaped mailbox,

A waiting list for Tomato Blessings,

And an online store selling “Anointed Ketchup.”

I also had a small existential crisis.

Things reached peak insanity when Channel 8 News showed up.

I greeted them in my nicest cardigan. Kelsey wore a ceremonial tomato robe.

The reporter asked, “What message would you share with the world?”

I said, dead serious, “I just wanted a BLT, man.”

That clip went viral.

People started traveling across state lines for “tomato healing.” One woman claimed her plantar fasciitis disappeared after hugging Tomathan. Another said she got her ex back.

I do not endorse this. But who was I to argue with miracles?

Then came the incident.

One night, a rival cucumber cult showed up. You think I’m joking. I wish.

They wore green sashes and demanded “equal veneration for the mighty cuke.”

Words were exchanged. The produce was thrown.

It ended with a zucchini duel and someone yelling, “YOU CAN’T SPELL SALAD WITHOUT SACRIFICE!”

The police got involved. The HOA was not pleased.

I had to appear at a town meeting, where I was officially asked to “cease all organized worship of tomatoes, glowing or otherwise.”

Tomathan, betrayed, withered the next day.

We held a memorial.

Over 200 people came. There was interpretive dance.

Kelsey sang a mournful ballad titled “Vine of Mine.”

And me? I stood in the rain, wondering how my simple garden dream spiraled into a food-based spiritual movement that almost led to intervegetable warfare.

Today, my yard is quiet again.

The vines are gone. The chants have stopped. The HOA still glares at me.

But sometimes, when the moon is full and I walk past the compost bin, I swear I hear whispering:

“Sauce us, oh Lord…”

And part of me wonders...

What would’ve happened if I’d planted corn?

Author’s Note:

Gardening is dangerous. Stick to succulents. They don’t attract followers. (Usually.)

Also, if you see Kelsey selling “Resurrect the Vine” stickers online, no you didn’t.