I was walking past her house and saw the telltale spade shaped leaves of some young squash plants out in her front yard, hidden in the landscaping, and I was like OH MY GOD A KINDRED SPIRIT! Somebody gets it. Right here on my block, holy crapload of yes. Those squash were like little flags waving to me and saying rest here, ye weary traveler, take refuge from the denizens of crazytown, refresh yourself with some organic lemonade made from our water efficient rainwater saving practices and biodiverse compost for you are safe, girl, kick off your heels.
 |
| "Oh my god. You add eggshells to your compost too?" I'm home. |
What I'm saying is we don't have a lot to talk about.
Still, I was excited that this was going to be a community building moment that would cross the barriers of our different types of footwear, that stilettoed-peep toes and barefoot running shoes could come together in a mutual desire for all the goodness that comes with the garden, to grow and flourish and thrive!
But instead, this was how it went.
Me: "Hey! I see you guys have some squash out in your front yard!" (unspoken subtext: "Like I do, in those huge raised beds I have in the middle of my dead and dying lawn of grass that looks like nuclear winter. Yay squash! Also, be my compatriot in this campaign to spread the gospel of Garden.")
Her: "What? I...well, yes, I mean...my mother-in-law was like, of course you don't ever put food out in the front yard and I didn't want to, but...so my husband grew those from these, like, seeds we got at the grocery store and, I mean, who eats squash?...with the dog and everything we tried to hide them but really we should have some landscaping there." (Unspoken subtext: "Oh. My. GOD I can't believe you called me out on the eyesore in my front yard it has almost been a marriage-ending conflict in my household because LOOK AT IT.") She laughed uncomfortably and race-walked away from me, presumably to burn more free carbohydrates from her impeccably sculpted body.
Okay. We don't talk about it. I get it.
In the same way that when you're dieting it seems like every commercial on TV is for Taco Bell Cinnabons or stuffed crust pizza or glorious glorious jalapeno and lime chips, since I've moved my urban farm into the more sunny and expansive acreage of the front yard, I've noticed little sneaky farm-lets everywhere...and I guess people have noticed mine. An older couple, walking their dog, came up onto the lawn to examine our squash while I was weeding. "Whadya have there, some butternut?" the man asked as if he was from some forgotten Stephen King-esque Connecticut hamlet. His wife, in her immaculately coiffed shining pearl hair and diamond earrings shot him a warning look, but whispered to me, "We have about fifteen raised beds ourselves," before smiling uncomfortably and quickly pulling her husband away by the arm.
I have to admit, when my friend was talking about getting a pet for her children and had ruled out dogs, cats, and reptiles, I was a little embarrassed to suggest what seemed the obvious solution in light of her huge backyard and my own state of mind--chickens. She squirmed at the suggestion, but admitted, "I know, I know, it's so chic right now, chickens are so hot, everyone's doing chickens now."
Are they?
Why is urban farming the dirty little secret of the suburbs?
The whole concept of what suburbanites think of as a traditional front yard comes from our roots as an English colony; basically having a lawn was a symbol of affluence, showing the neighbors you were balling it enough to have land that didn't need to be used for growing food or feeding sheep. Not much has changed in 300 years; the Kardashians have recently become the target for drought shaming for keeping their vast L.A. estate as lush and green as ever despite California's severe water restrictions. We're determined to distance ourselves from our rural roots; not only with those green lawns, but also in the lexicon we use when speaking about farmers and farmland. Boondocks; sticks; mudhole; podunk; yokel; hayseed; hick; bumpkin; dirt farmer. In our very words we show our disdain for the people and soil that sustain us. Our march towards the suburbs is one we're not supposed to look back from. We're here now and our neighbors aren't about to let us forget that (property values, honey)--no, I mean they're seriously not going to let us forget that since there are literally zoning restrictions in some states that prohibit people from farming in the front yard. Thankfully, at least in some places, communities are beginning to relax community gardening regulations to allow the shift from decorative back to functional, from lawns back to vegetables, from landscaping to squash vines.
Which brings me back to the secret life of the backyard farmer, quietly cultivating modern-day victory gardens with tomato cages on the back patio; or my neighbors, with their squash vines on the downlow. See, they may still be closet urban farmers but it definitely takes one to know one; only someone who's tried to grow squash on their own knows how finicky they can be about pollinating, how prone they are to squash borers, how greedy for compost and fertilizer they are once they finally fruit. My little old neighbors know, and that's what made them cross the boundaries of the great suburban divide--the property line--step off the sidewalk into my garden and one step closer to the kind of community our grandparents probably had with each other. It's the kind of community that growing things can build.
At a recent dinner party at my house I was startled when all of the artists and actors and writers I brought over didn't want to have wonderful intellectual conversations with each other. They all asked for a tour of my burgeoning backyard farm. I was a little embarrassed to take them around and say "Well, these are my sunflowers that haven't flowered yet, and this is the bare patch of land where I just planted radishes yesterday, and these are my blueberry bushes that I just harvested so they now look like regular shrubs..." but I was more startled that they bent over and looked at everything and sat in the backyard drinking it in, laughing at how I'd probably have chickens soon but wistfully asking whether I might think of getting a beehive? and just like that, the secret life sparks curiosity.
I'm seeing, really seeing, my neighborhood in a way I never did before, and realizing that those squash vines hidden in the landscaping and tomato plants edging the pathways really are a sign--here's someone who's not afraid, who doesn't care what the neighborhood thinks, who wants to take back a corner of the precious resources we've been given, and who's willing to be weird to do it. Possibly a crazy chicken lady at heart. Possibly a kindred spirit who knows the secret life of farming in heels.
Okay. We don't talk about it. I get it.
In the same way that when you're dieting it seems like every commercial on TV is for Taco Bell Cinnabons or stuffed crust pizza or glorious glorious jalapeno and lime chips, since I've moved my urban farm into the more sunny and expansive acreage of the front yard, I've noticed little sneaky farm-lets everywhere...and I guess people have noticed mine. An older couple, walking their dog, came up onto the lawn to examine our squash while I was weeding. "Whadya have there, some butternut?" the man asked as if he was from some forgotten Stephen King-esque Connecticut hamlet. His wife, in her immaculately coiffed shining pearl hair and diamond earrings shot him a warning look, but whispered to me, "We have about fifteen raised beds ourselves," before smiling uncomfortably and quickly pulling her husband away by the arm.
I have to admit, when my friend was talking about getting a pet for her children and had ruled out dogs, cats, and reptiles, I was a little embarrassed to suggest what seemed the obvious solution in light of her huge backyard and my own state of mind--chickens. She squirmed at the suggestion, but admitted, "I know, I know, it's so chic right now, chickens are so hot, everyone's doing chickens now."
Are they?
Why is urban farming the dirty little secret of the suburbs?
 |
| Shhh, they're growing tomatoes that taste like tomatoes over there. Right out in the FRONT YARD. Dirty communists. |
The whole concept of what suburbanites think of as a traditional front yard comes from our roots as an English colony; basically having a lawn was a symbol of affluence, showing the neighbors you were balling it enough to have land that didn't need to be used for growing food or feeding sheep. Not much has changed in 300 years; the Kardashians have recently become the target for drought shaming for keeping their vast L.A. estate as lush and green as ever despite California's severe water restrictions. We're determined to distance ourselves from our rural roots; not only with those green lawns, but also in the lexicon we use when speaking about farmers and farmland. Boondocks; sticks; mudhole; podunk; yokel; hayseed; hick; bumpkin; dirt farmer. In our very words we show our disdain for the people and soil that sustain us. Our march towards the suburbs is one we're not supposed to look back from. We're here now and our neighbors aren't about to let us forget that (property values, honey)--no, I mean they're seriously not going to let us forget that since there are literally zoning restrictions in some states that prohibit people from farming in the front yard. Thankfully, at least in some places, communities are beginning to relax community gardening regulations to allow the shift from decorative back to functional, from lawns back to vegetables, from landscaping to squash vines.
Which brings me back to the secret life of the backyard farmer, quietly cultivating modern-day victory gardens with tomato cages on the back patio; or my neighbors, with their squash vines on the downlow. See, they may still be closet urban farmers but it definitely takes one to know one; only someone who's tried to grow squash on their own knows how finicky they can be about pollinating, how prone they are to squash borers, how greedy for compost and fertilizer they are once they finally fruit. My little old neighbors know, and that's what made them cross the boundaries of the great suburban divide--the property line--step off the sidewalk into my garden and one step closer to the kind of community our grandparents probably had with each other. It's the kind of community that growing things can build.
At a recent dinner party at my house I was startled when all of the artists and actors and writers I brought over didn't want to have wonderful intellectual conversations with each other. They all asked for a tour of my burgeoning backyard farm. I was a little embarrassed to take them around and say "Well, these are my sunflowers that haven't flowered yet, and this is the bare patch of land where I just planted radishes yesterday, and these are my blueberry bushes that I just harvested so they now look like regular shrubs..." but I was more startled that they bent over and looked at everything and sat in the backyard drinking it in, laughing at how I'd probably have chickens soon but wistfully asking whether I might think of getting a beehive? and just like that, the secret life sparks curiosity.
I'm seeing, really seeing, my neighborhood in a way I never did before, and realizing that those squash vines hidden in the landscaping and tomato plants edging the pathways really are a sign--here's someone who's not afraid, who doesn't care what the neighborhood thinks, who wants to take back a corner of the precious resources we've been given, and who's willing to be weird to do it. Possibly a crazy chicken lady at heart. Possibly a kindred spirit who knows the secret life of farming in heels.
No comments:
Post a Comment