Lately, everywhere I’m going , everyone is growing.
I’m constantly hearing about people turning to the earth. Turning up the earth. Even people surrounded by concrete are managing to find green thumbs and go green.
I’m well aware of the benefits, thanks to my friend Myra Goodman, who– with her husband— turned their backyard raspberry patch into Earthbound Farm, the largest grower of organic produce in the world.
Suddenly there are Myras everywhere. People are planting their own little backyard gardens and everyone is excited about growing something they can eat.
I’m surrounded. My sister- in- law (on V’s side) is so enamored with her garden, she looks at her plants like I look at Sees’ Candies. My friend Jane not only grows those amazing roses, but grows equally amazing organic fruits and vegetables. My own sister has turned her front lawn into a subsidiary of Whole Foods. I know someone who passed up a trip to see the heirlooms of Europe to see the ripening of her heirloom tomatoes.
While I think this is all wonderful and I wholly support the earth, I feel a little insecure. My own thumb is so far from green that healthy plants can keel over if I just look at them.
And while I love fresh fruit and vegetables as much as the next person—- I prefer to pick them the old fashioned way: from the bins in the produce aisle.
My mother was a city girl who never taught us how to plant anything— a tradition I passed on to my own children. But I think I’ve reached my nadir as a purveyor of the domestic arts. My son already puts me to shame by cooking delicious nutritious meals —when he should be living on candy bars and pizza like a normal college student. When I visited him in Madison last week, here’s what I spotted on his back patio: he’s growing his own basil. Et tu, Daniel?