Having a vegetable garden must be in the genes. My dad and his dad before him seemed to spend all summer either picking tomatoes or trundling them around town to various willing recipients. And since I’m always happy when my hands have that tomato-vine smell, I find myself about to be doing the same. I’ve got tiny currant tomatoes and bigger Sweet 100s to spare, and some Super San Marzanos and other bigger varieties are ripening even as the vines are getting big enough to take over the house. Eggplants and peppers will be ready in a few weeks. And there’s the zucchini, which is the butt of many undeserved jokes; if you pick it small, it’s delectable, even raw, and you never have those boat-sized, woody ones. Even the raspberry cane I put in this winter unexpectedly bore some fruit, which wasn’t supposed to happen until next year. Anybody want some produce?