Gardeners love seed catalogs.

Here in Vermont we get a lot of them, most arriving in the dead of winter, when the garden is nothing but a fitful memory. They run the gamut from a full-color book-length production on glossy coated paper to a terse postcard from a Vermonter who sells Gilfeather turnips. Of whatever design, however, to the winter-bound and cabin-fever-afflicted, they’re a temptation on a scale that last occurred in Eden, when the snake sidled up to Eve and pointed out how really yummy that apple looked.

The seed catalog people know this, of course. They’re perfectly aware that none of us has had a really delicious ripe tomato in months. They know we’re vulnerable. And they’ve been banking