Readers': Fruitful Labors

Two of my favorite people--my father and my best friend--love to garden. My father watches the progress of his squash plants with great--and justifiable--pride. My friend sends me pictures of her seedlings on a weekly basis. They like to think of the relative pH levels of their respective garden beds; of the compost that needs to be created and the fertilizing that needs to be done. My dad likes to extol the meditative properties of weeding. They love their gardens; I, to my shame, do not. I like dealing with the products of gardens. I like drying and preserving, freezing and canning. But plants, excepting hardy herb beds, tend to wither under my indifferent care.

One of my favorite cookbooks, The Victory Garden Cookbook, seems to have been written for families just like mine. There’s advice for people who grow the vegetables, both common and obscure, and advice for what on earth to do with all these freaking zucchinis. (There’s a particularly good recipe for zucchini spice cake, which has the merit of not tasting at all like a zucchini) It gives information about carrot’s love of sandy soil, and how to tell when to pick kale. I find this book comfortingly inclusive of both sides of the gardening life: those who care for the plants, and those who love the produce.

This year, mindful of drought restrictions, my family is doing all we can to save as much water as possible, but none of us ever considered cutting back on the vegetable garden. Lawns? Sure. But just try to take away our fresh tomatoes.

The Victory Garden concept reaches back into WWII, when the act of creating a vegetable garden was an act of patriotism. (Before that, the home vegetable garden was merely a way of saving money during the Depression; prudence and practicality rarely equals victory, at least in the broader cultural milieu). But the vegetable garden reaches far back into the distant past. Small gardens came before larger farms: they could be the first signs of settled human habitation. In other words, growing one’s own food is a sign of permanency. It is a promise to stay in one place, for at least as long as it takes for plants to bear fruit. A garden means home.

Maybe I’m not a gardener, but maybe that doesn’t matter. The art of gardening is nothing without the art of knowing what to do with the results: what good would masses of eggplants do anyone without someone knowing what do with them? In these California days of water restriction, we all have to weigh our hydration choices. In a recent op-ed in the LA Times, lawns are praised and defended as the heart of the middle class home and neighborhood. In my mind, the lawn matters much less than the garden: that which marks our desire to care for ourselves by caring for the land. It is the humble vegetable garden marking the boundaries of home that I shall make sacrifices for. I’d never take a two minute shower for a lawn; I’ll always do it for the tomatoes.