Last spring I grew one lonely tomato plant.

I’m terrible with plants, so I wasn’t getting my hopes up.

A colleague gave it to me when it was far enough along that I’d be less likely to kill it. It had healthy roots, a strong green stem, and a few leaves.

I took it home, planted it in a big brown pot, and waited. I tried hard to remember to water it, but often forgot. Pretty sure my husband kept it alive. After several weeks, we watched it sprout more stems and leaves. It started to look like an actual plant.  

Months went by. It stayed green and lively, but there were no signs of fruit.

Until finally, late into the summer, a small trio of green tomatoes appeared. I almost couldn’t believe it. But I had pretty much handed over the plant care to my husband at that point, so that part made sense.

Each tomato was slightly different in size, and they ripened at different times. First green, then yellow, some orange blended in, and finally … bright ripe red.

In total, at least three months went by before we had our first tomato. It was a slow process. But it was homegrown, and that meant something.

I took a picture of the three tomatoes on that plant. Sent it to the colleague who gifted it to me. Not because I’d never seen a tomato before, or because they were perfectly colored or shaped, but because there was something special about growing them ourselves.

That’s what made it meaningful. Sure, it took forever. And it didn’t exactly yield a harvest. But so what?

The BLTs we made with that first tomato were delightful. They tasted so much better than anything we’d pick up at the store.

The stores tomatoes are fine. We still eat them. But I’ve never felt the need to photograph a tomato at the grocery store. They all look the same—uniform, predictable. No different colors or unique shapes like ours. And the flavor is sometimes just a little more … bland.

Ours tasted different. Fresh, pure, and alive in a way that’s hard to explain …

Unless you’ve grown something yourself and tasted the difference.

And once you have, you just can’t unfeel it.

We could have driven to the store and bought a tomato the same day I planted that plant. 

It would have been easy, fast, and convenient. We could have made our BLTs and moved on to the next thing, without worrying about watering schedules or unpredictable Wisconsin weather for months. 

That would have been logical.

But it wasn't the only answer, and it wouldn't have been as meaningful. 

Sometimes pure logic misses the point, especially in marketing. It misses what makes the work different, and what makes the products we’re marketing different too.

Sometimes it’s not about speed or convenience. Sometimes the real stuff just matters more. 

So as everyone talks about what AI means for marketing, I don't have all the answers.

But I do believe this: two very different things can coexist.

Artificial intelligence (AI) and human intelligence (HI). Both are useful. Both solve a need. Neither one has to cancel out the other.

Think about the food we consume. A friend and respected writer I know, David Haznaw, put it brilliantly as we were exchanging thoughts on the topic …

A lot of the food we eat is highly processed and mass-produced. Convenience foods have taken over our cupboards and refrigerators. And sometimes, it’s what we need. But it doesn't mean it's always the best answer. People still crave real food—like fresh, nutritious, homegrown fruits and vegetables—full of flavor that families at farmer’s markets sell one-by-one, and no factory can quite replicate. 

Convenience foods save time and they’re easy to access. But you don’t want to consume too much of them. Healthier, homegrown foods provide our bodies essential nutrients—they’re critical. Neither has made the other obsolete. Both serve a purpose.

AI is fast and excels at processes, logic, and repetitive tasks. HI brings unique experience, empathy, meaning, and nuance. Rather than one being better, they both bring different value.

And one could argue each end of the spectrum … that you only need convenience OR you only need what’s real. The problem with that is it’s seldom realistic. Most of us need some form of convivence. While we also feel how meaningful it is to grow something ourselves.

What’s more realistic is that both are useful.

There's a place for the homegrown tomato.

And there's a place for the jar on the shelf.

Which means it’s less about deciding if one is better than the other (AI or HI), and more about knowing which one you’re reaching for—and why.

Which brings me to Rao's …

Rao's was first known as a small, 10-table, impossible-to-get-into Italian restaurant in East Harlem, New York. For decades, the only way to taste their homemade tomato sauce was to know someone who could get you in.Even today, you can’t book a reservation at Rao’s, you get invited.

The sauce was simmered slowly and made in small batches with only the best ingredients, like pure Italian olive oil and hand-picked, naturally ripened tomatoes from southern Italy. Their sauce had no tomato blends, no paste, no water, no starch, no filler, no colors, and no added sugar.

In 1992, they started bottling Rao’s Homemade sauce in jars so they could share it with people who couldn’t get a table at the restaurant.

They kept it pure, with the same exact ingredients. And people happily paid $10 for it, even while it sat on the shelf next to $3 competitors. Loyal fans believed that Rao’s just tasted better. It was homemade.

Then in 2024, Campbell's officially acquired Rao's for $2.7 billion.

The internet panicked. Campbell's had just paid $2.7 billion for a brand whose entire mindset was that it was nothing like Campbell's. Rao’s fans were worried that Campbell’s would change the ingredients.  

Campbell’s vowed to keep the recipe the same, and their website remains strong on that promise today. But the fascinating part was that buyers still swore it tasted different.

The mere announcement of the acquisition triggered some people to complain that the recipe changed—even before Campbell’s officially took over.

The perception of scale was enough to make people doubt what was in the jar.

So what does a tomato plant and a $2.7 billion pasta sauce have to do with marketing?

Everything. If you look at it the right way. 

Mindset Comes First

Mindset is your foundation. It's what you believe about your work, your customers, and why you exist before anyone is watching.

The Rao's family made their sauce the same way for nearly a century before it ever saw a grocery shelf. They chose to go slow. And somewhere in Wisconsin, someone terrible with plants decided not to buy a tomato at the store, even though it would have been much easier.

Think about it. Those weren’t the most efficient choices. They were intentional ones … decisions based on a human’s belief about why that approach mattered.

In marketing, mindset is what determines whether you reach for the convenient tool or the meaningful one. Whether you optimize for an algorithm or you slow down to create something uniquely yours.

It starts with what you believe, and why you’re doing it.

Empathy Makes It Matter

Empathy is your extension. It's how you connect, because you've slowed down enough to listen.

Remember the Rao's fans who swore the sauce tasted different after the Campbell's acquisition? Complaints hit Reddit before Campbell's had officially taken over. The recipe hadn't changed, but trust slipped because loyal customers cared about homemade. And when trust started slipping, people stopped tasting the tomatoes.

That’s how deep authenticity runs.

Your audience can feel the difference between content created for them and content created at them. They may not be able to articulate it. But often, they know. The same way you know when a tomato came from a garden vs. a grocery store.

And that doesn’t mean the grocery store one is bad. It’s just one answer. The homegrown one is another. Both can have their place and serve a need.

Empathy is what keeps you close enough to the people on the other side of your marketing to know which one they care about.   

Logic Brings It Home

Logic is your translation. And remember, it belongs last, because it matters most when it's built on the mindset and empathy already established.

The logical case for Rao's keeping its recipe was strong. The brand was authenticity—their sauce was known for being homemade. Change the ingredients, and you don't just change the sauce, you destroy the reason anyone paid $10 for it in the first place.

Campbell's seems to understand that. So far. But skeptics still debate.  

And for marketers navigating AI, the logic is the same. Use the tools. Use them well. But understand what they can and can't replicate.

AI can do a lot of things faster than any human. But it can’t replicate your specific point of view. Your lived experience. Your struggles. The trust and relationships you've built over decades—with people.

A store-bought tomato is totally fine. It’s consistent. Predictable.

But it will never taste like the one you grew yourself.

And neither will the marketing.

What You’ll Need:

Put down your phone and go plant something in the soil. It could be a tomato, a basil plant, maybe a small cup of mint on your desk.

Water it. Watch it. Let it take as long as it takes.

And when it finally gives you something, notice how that feels.

That’s the feeling you’re trying to put into your marketing.

If this story sparked a thought, a question, or even a gentle disagreement, I’d love to hear it. Share what resonated—or what didn’t.

I’d love to make this a conversation so we can learn and grow together.