Squashed hopes and triggering scents

I have several varieties of squash growing out back, pie pumpkins, carving pumpkins, summer squash and zucchini. Possibly some crooknecks, I can"t remember. The plants are more or less huge, depending on their age. The carving pumpkin, be warned growing a Jack o' lantern pumpkin, is reeeelly reeely big and has huge vines with strong threads that will wind around anything they touch. Very cool plant, just be prepared. The zucchini are also very large, but do not vine. I have had several zucchini to harvest so far, they have been tender and tasty, and there is one rapidly expanding pumpkin to be found. But... Nothing else. Lots of flowers, no fruit or weak yellowy icky looking fruit. I was worried, but did some research and Looks like I shall just have to be a little more patient.
Thanks to iVillage's Garden Web
I have found there are a few reasons, but the most likely is my flowers are either mostly male or mostly female. There are certainly enough bees! So I will just cross my fingers, make some Compost tea and bide my time eating tomatoes.

Which brings me to tomatoes. There are two kinds of tomato plants, not varieties, but ways in which the plant grows. Indeterminate and determinate. Most tomatoes are indeterminate, if you leave them alone they will vine, and keep growing the whole season and if the branches touch ground, they will root. My cherry tomato is just such a tomato. I believe my beefsteak is too, but it is a much, much more manageable plant. The third tomato I have is determinate, it is a nice, tidy little tomato plant. Determinate tomatoes stay small. The poor thing is dwarfed by it's companion tomatos, the grape and the pumpkin, yet it has a nice number of fruits, yay!
Back to the monster cherry. Cherry tomato plants are a-maze-ing. They get huge, they fruit like there is no tomorrow. They are also a pain in the ass to stake. I have pruned and staked and bought bigger stakes at least 3 times this season. It wants to eat the lovely carrot companions I have planted next to it, it wants to eat the other two tomatoes. But it is now tamed and the tomatoes are more than worth the trouble with their red, sweet fruit.

I have a tomato story.
Tomatoes, if you have ever sniffed a tomato, a fresh tomato from the field or garden, not a grocery store one, it should smell, not tomatoey, like they taste. It should smell green, slightly off puttingly green, very earthy, and slightly almost poisony, like some household defoliant to insect killers. I swear...But only a little Remember tomatoe's sweet cousin, the deadly nightshade...The lovely little dark purple current like fruits taste like a bitter tomato, the plants are delicate and very attractive and have tiny purple and white flowers that look like tomato flowers and the plant smells like a tomato. I know, I tasted a berry once, briefly, before I realized what it was. (I like wild plants. I wanted to know what it was not kill myself, I spat it out silly.)
It smells to me like summer and gardens and tomato caterpillars and being 6. Like warm sunshine and ripe red tomatos, sitting under corn stalks and tomato plants and gazing at the sky though frondy foliage. Wandering around the garden looking carefully at everything.
My true appreciation of tomatoes is from our garden we had in Tracy, CA when I was 6. I accidentally spilled a cigarbox full of corn seeds in to the dirt and there was corn much taller than my wee self to gaze up at. That sense that I had, accidentally, had something to do with it's deep Kelly green existence was cool.
My mom had planted tomatoes and watermelon and pumpkin, and other vegetable things I had little interest in since they were vegetables. But the tomatos were a thing of wonder. The delicate little yellow flowers, the small green fruits that swelled and gradually turned a glowy amber orange to sunburn red. Watching big fat green caterpillars with dangerous looking spikes on their end eat leaves. And the smell, the smell, the smell. I once took a ripe red tomato, warm with the day's sun and soft and yielding under my small hands, and took a branch off a rose bush, with it's sharp hooked thorns and sat to poke a hole in the tomato and suck out the pulpy warm seeds, like a tomato smoothie. The best tomato I ever did have was on that day. Every time I smell tomato plants, that's where I go. To a warm summer evening with ripe tomatoes and cornstocks twice my size. It's magic.