Because 2 days is never enough.

I recently went to visit my family in Santa Barbara. I had my usual, “why in the world am I living in New York???” meltdown. It’s hard not to when I’m out there enjoying 75 degree weather, eating my dad’s yummy cooking, visiting the endless stalls of beautiful fresh fruit and veggies (strawberries, avocados, artichokes!), eating brunch in the yard with my mom, taking long walks on the beach with my best friend, gobbling up delicious homemade Mexican food, etc… And all this in March.

Needless to say, I spent the week of my return feeling very grumpy with the cold weather, and the crowded subways, and my general lack of a back yard full of fruit trees. And I missed my mom, and my dad, and my step-mom, and my friends, and my town in general. Luckily for me, my mom made sure that a bit of Santa Barbara came back to New York with me.

The day before I left, my mom took me around the yard and collected cuttings from her expansive succulent garden. Okay, so, in the interest of full disclosure, I did have a moment where I realized that my mom is on the verge of being a crazy plant lady. She seemed to have what can only be described as unique friendships with each of her plants. But, regardless, it was really nice of her. She wrapped them all up in newspaper and sealed them in a big ziploc bag.

This weekend, after wandering all over Brooklyn on foot trying to find some simple terracotta pots, I found what I was looking for at Home Depot. I came home and gave all the cuttings a new home. And, honestly, they really do bring a little bit of cheer to my day each morning when I see them.

Let’s just hope I keep them alive until my mom gets here in May for some plant rehab.

Dear Tomato Plant,

Thank you for hanging in there, in the bathroom, with probably less light that you might have wanted, maybe not enough room to stretch out, probably a couple days here and there where you wondered where the hell your water was. Thank you for forgiving me for infanticide on your littlest budding tomatoes (in hopes of channeling all your energy to a few great tomatoes). Thank you for producing the sweetest, juiciest, most delicious cherry tomatoes I’ve ever eaten, even if there were only five of them and Karl and I had to split them on top of our omelettes.

In gratitude to your service, I promise to take much better care of the tomato plant I plant in my bathroom next summer.

A tree grows in Brooklyn — and now corn does too. I came upon stalks of wild corn as I walked through the intersection of President (my street) and 6th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I’m obviously not the only person to notice the two dozen tall stalks. A short article even appeared in the New York Times, which unraveled the mystery of who planted the city corn and why.

The little cornfield is the work of Donnaldson Brown, a 48-year-old trusts and estates lawyer, screenwriter, fiction writer and mother of a 12-year-old son, who planted the seeds in May, fully aware that if they survived, the result would be comedically off-scale for the urban setting.

“It was to subvert expectations,” Ms. Brown, who spent part of her childhood on family farms in Maryland and Texas, said as the cornstalks swayed outside her window, “to put something out of context.”

As people pass on the street, grocery bags in hand, cellphones pressed to their ears, they crane their necks to look up at the stalks, as if Shoeless Joe Jackson might come swaggering out. The cornfield has also become a point of orientation. “We’re a block down from the corn,” a resident will say. “You can’t miss it.”

It reminded me of the recent New Yorker article in which Adam Gopnik prepares a meal from ingredients that are local to New York City. (Foraging in Central Park anyone?) You just never know where food is going to crop up.

I went to visit my sister, Kate, at Vassar College last weekend. She and her roommates joined a cooperative run by the Vassar farm and she was eager to show me her weekly harvest. And it was a bounty. There is something so much more satisfying about picking up your CSA veggies on an actual farm, as opposed to a church basement in Harlem, but I digress.
Like good little kibbutzim, Kate and her friends rose early and bright eyed, arriving at the farm at 12:30pm, some faces still dented from their sheets. They then took to their labors, picking green beans with curiosity and chewing them raw, handfuls a time, happily bovine as partially chewed beans hung from their lips.
Here’s Kate with her colorful flowers and leafy greens:

And here is Comrade Blake, a model for the Soviet propaganda poster for the Vassar Cooperative Farm. (He’s a professional: has been in two soundless films!)

It was a pretty farm, tucked right next to my old rugby field against a few acres of undeveloped mid-Hudsdon woods. Kate and her darling friends returned home and planned for a farm co-op potluck, carefully arranged sage leaves into a decorative candle holder, and put out their pretty flowers.
Oh sure they were all hung-over and patching together the spotty bits in their memory of the evening before. And yes, we did eat at the same charming greasy spoon diner where the wall paper alone is probably predates the civil war. But still, I couldn’t help but admire how much more wholesome these kids were, with their kale, fresh air, beets, peppers, lettuce, than we ever were back in the olden days.

When I left for my vacation in Seattle, I begged Karl to water my tomato plant with love. You see, it had finally starting growing little flowers and I felt so close to realizing my summer time dream of actually growing a tomato. The plant had survived my well documented bad plant mothering skills, a lengthy period in a planter far too small for it, and a traumatizing attack by our friend Tyler who, for inexplicable reasons though it was cilantro.

A week and a half later, I returned to my dear tomato project. Yes, we grow herbs and tomatoes in our bathroom…besides being the sunniest spot in the house with the most extra space, it gives me something to do while I brush my teeth and pee. And there they were, my little beauties. Little is the operative word. For now.

I love them. I love them so much I could literally sit there and watch them grow.

It’s late in the season and I’m concerned that I won’t ever get to eat a shiny red bathroom tomato on my salad. Matt suggested that I cut back all but one or two of them so that plant can concentrate on squeaking out a prize for me. But… KILL my babies (there are now 6 of them)??? What kind of monster would suggest that?

I did pull off a flower this morning. And I still feel kind of crappy about it.

UPDATE:

They’re getting biiiigger! I only hope I love my own children this much (and I hope I don’t dream of one day eating my own children with a little mozzarella and basil!)