My husband is not a gardener. In fact, he doesn't like plants, inside or out. But this doesn't keep me from bringing them home.

Last winter I bought a large philodendron. I set it on the hearth and stood back to admire it. My husband held forth with his usual scolding: "Do we have to keep it in the family room? Jeez, it's ugly. Can't it go outside?"

"Honey," I said, "it's January. And we live in Kansas."

"Exactly," he replied.

I get the point. I have another plant for my office.

In the summer, he scouts the outside of the house, assessing the plants and wondering aloud, "Can't we cut that thing back? Who planted it, anyway?"

I have to lie and say, "the previous owners."

"All the more reason to take it out," he says.

So I was surprised when my husband came home last week with a Topsy-Turvy tomato planter. If you haven't seen these, they look like a green mesh cylinder with three wires and a hook at the top.

"Tomatoes?" I ask in shock.

"I'm tired of eating those pink cardboard things they pass off in the grocery store," he replies.

My eyes open wide. I want to ask whether he has enjoyed his martini a little early, but I don't. My husband is on a mission, and I am going with him.

He pulls a bag of potting soil out of the car along with a very small, but cute, tomato plant. Its name: "Chef Jeff." I pick up the planter and move toward the potting soil.

"Hold it," he says. "We have to set up a hoist or it will be too heavy to hang."

He hops into the car and departs for the hardware store. I keep planting flowers in the back yard, humming "You say tom-ay-toe, I say tom-ah-toe."

He returns with two feet of linked chain, drops it on his work bench, and disappears into the house. Slathering himself with SPF 50, he dons his ultraviolet-ray-stopping shirt and returns to the garage, where he steps into his tool belt.

Fully equipped, he unwraps the planter and studies the instructions. Placing the illustrated text on the workbench, he reads aloud.

"First, we need to free the roots."

My dear husband takes "Chef Jeff" by the throat and spanks the dirt from its roots, leaving good black soil all over his shoes and the garage floor. I say nothing, thinking, I need to be encouraging.

He feeds the roots up into the planter and attaches the foam rubber pad around the exit hole, then places the plant and planter in our large red wheelbarrow. Couldn't we just carry it? I wonder.

He wheels the plant to the back side of the house, where he has drilled a hook into the roof overhang. Then he connects the chain to the hook and hangs the Topsy-Turvy planter. We scoop potting soil and dump it into the top.

"Careful," he says, "not too much."

I hold back on filling the planter to the brim, but one more cup of dirt won't hurt, will it? I get a scowl, and stop.

It's time to hoist the planter. We pull, listening for the clicking sound of the links as we try to ratchet the plant upward. Nothing happens. We try again. Still nothing.

"It's not working," he says, taking it off the chain and handing it to me. I try to stretch up to the hook without the hoist. But by now, the weight is considerable, and the wires are cutting into my hands. Afraid to put it down for fear of crushing "Chef Jeff," I yell, "Get my leather gardening gloves!"

He's off and running.

Back in seconds, he's carrying my gloves and a step stool.

By now I'm hoping our neighbors aren't watching, as this is edging toward the bizarre. He helps me onto the stool. I elevate the planter and jiggle the chain links into the hook. I pause for a moment, afraid to let it go. My hands are sweating. I pull away. It holds!

But we're not done yet. It's time to water the plant.

Using the slow-drip method, he takes the hose and stands on the step stool. Watering from the top, he moistens all the dirt, stopping only when water runs out the bottom and mud splashes onto the side of the house. I get annoyed. Not important, I tell myself. What is important is that my husband—yes, my husband—took ownership of a plant.

After a hard day's work, we sit back in our white wicker lounge chairs, blue-and-white-striped umbrella overhead, wine glasses in hand, and gaze up at the tomato. We can't wait for our luscious homegrown tomatoes to ripen and drop into our outstretched hands.

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