There are no Boring gardens, only Boring gardeners

photo: Marrisa Senteno

 

 

 

"Gardening is boring. Yawn. Really Mom. We have to check the plants again? We did it yesterday. You go, I'll stay here." No, I am not suddenly the mother of a teenager (although he eats like one. If it gets much worse, I am afraid the Earth cannot sustain Sam). He is three. Already savvy enough to know if Mom likes it, it must be rejected. But I am cool. Seriously. This is important. This merits reiteration. I am not much. Not exceptionally smart, or beautiful, or graceful, or even articulate, but I have always been cool. I am only 33 and my coolness MAINTAINS! Therefore Gardening is cool--and wait! It's not gardening, dammit. Urban farming. What could be more exciting than forcing growth in the greatest concrete mecca of the world? I feel jilted, hostile--gritted teeth implied, "We started this thing together and we are going to see it through to the end, whether you like it or not."

Truth be told I got a little bored myself. Probably the scale of the project, as for each vegetable I have 12 plants, nearing 60 little seedlings, all needing careful hardening, multiple repotting and probably some food, which even as of yet, I have not quite gotten around to doing.

Underappreciated Oasis

photo:Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves

And, you know, Sam's not so fun to garden with. He won't help or sit through it. I can't bounce ideas off him, he just little-boy rolls over the picnic table, avoiding contact with much green or living in our prized backyard. I made the mistake of introducing Sam to the snails and worms we share the space with, and now he won't put a toe outside the perimeter of cement without wailing "Snails!" I pretend it is due to some saintly respect for the creatures, but this concern extends to all non-manmade surfaces. The first time he visited my parents house in suburban Michigan, I was mortified to realize he was afraid of their yard as well, not because of snails, but the unfamiliar texture of actual EARTH beneath his feet. Imagine, he had been walking for a year, but never set foot on a lawn. What kind of grass-stainless mutant city spawn am I raising?

Backyard
photo: Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves

 Balcony

photo: Marrisa Senteno

The First Green Beans

photo: Marrisa Senteno

Thankfully, the summer sun has moved and now basks the innocuously astroturfed balcony for a significant portion of the day. Having the garden upstairs makes Sam's necessitated involvement less of a battle, so I treked the plants up (alas, by hand and not employing my pulley).

Yet, even upstairs, Sam's interest is difficult to wrangle. My mother-in-law says "of course," as in "what more can you expect?" But I do expect, I do! I fantasize about this garden being our project-- canning, preserving, never spending another penny on growable goods. Eventually we will expertly take on a garden at Sam's future elementary school, teach the kids how to farm, landscape, and harvest a beautiful bounty. I have already plotted out the space. Our vegetables will be served in the cafeteria, bellies will be filled. All the while, I silently practice my coy deflection of the accolades I am sure to garner for being such a great mother--no--great community leader! It could be magical.

As soon as I realize this grandness isn't really in the scope of my capabilities, nor my true desire, I begin to wonder how much of this is really worth doing. Marrisa and I have had too many time conflicts of late for us to share motivation and, Oh My, have I missed her company. I grudgingly carry on, sneaking to the balcony and watering and repotting as best I can before Sam can calamity or catastrophe something in the apartment unsupervised.

Repot me! I am bursting at the seams!

photo: Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves

Just because we quit dutiful gardening doesn't mean the plants quit growing. Miracles of miracles, little vegetables emerged. I watched them daily and slowly reintroduced Sam to his rightful Frankensteins. Sam observed in wonder. I noticed he stopped whining when I announced it was time to water the plants. If I oohed over a new bud, he was pushing against my side, "Lemme see, please!" On a couple evenings while I was at work my husband invited friends over to spend a guy's night with Sam. Each time, Sam proudly introduced the vegetables to his guests. Purple beans were plucked and cracked to reveal a bright green flesh. Perfect bulbous pods thread to expose a pair of exquisite peas. Sam insisted he be allowed to hold these peas and "take care of them." He put them in his pocket where I forgot about them until much later at our favorite grocer, The Veggie Monster, Sam carefully produced them from his pocket, holding them out for the owner of the small organic vegetable stand to inspect. His peas were appropriately granted a nod of approval. I have hardly been prouder.

photo: Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves

If You Want to Destroy this Bean Pole

Last week my husband stuck his finger in a tiny hole in his tee shirt, and proceeded to tear it from his body in dramatic fashion. If you know Todd, you are probably picturing a Hulk-ish spectacle, but if you know Todd, you are also not surprised when I say it played out more like the Weezer song. We did indeed, hold this thread as he walked away. A long, strange yarn of tee shirt spun from him and I thought "Eureka! Just when I needed some twine!"

You see, my Bean plants are tall--a height betraying their immaturity and the wind was really kicking the crap out them during their "hardening" period. Leaves were ripped from their stems and the plants themselves drooped in depression. These plants were only spending two to three hours outdoors, hence the small pots, but they were clearly not adjusting to the new environment with ease. I desperately tried several supports, binding them to sticks and such, but the little pots would not give purchase.


Lamentation of the Bended Bean
photo: Allison Glasgow

Finally, I consulted the oracle internet...it should be remarked how rarely this occurs to me. I have been computer savy for--uh--upwards of 20 years, mastering a Commodore 64 in the 90's. Yet the bibliophile in me imagines all expertise to be held only in encyclopedic, tangible tomes. Not that I don't love the internet, I just don't think of it. Needless to say, a quick search later I had a very easy, effective strategy, plus an incredible new resource in the form of a square-foot-garden farm blog. Simple, invaluable advice from those who have come before...

http://thewealthyearth.com/how-to-protect-your-corn-from-wind-in-a-square-foot-garden/

The solution appears rather obvious, though I am sure I could not have come up with this on my own. Essentially you build a grid around each individual plant, a buffering wall to butt against but not tip or break. Tee shirt material, while I assume no better than run of the mill twine, is soft and has a fair amount of give, even when taut. There is no chance my beans are going to clothesline themselves on a tee shirt.

Tee-shirt Grid
photo: Allison Glasgow

One week later and limp leaves have woken and sprouted baby greenie-beanie buds!!!!! Yes, multiple exclamations and weird veggie babble needed. I am so excited. Low and behold today in the span of a few hours, there is some sort of mutanty flower-thing springing from the purple and white sprouts. I am so close to my first green bean casserole, I can hardly contain myself. Unfortunately once I graduate to successful farmer, I must also learn to cook said green beans, and perhaps even learn to enjoy them. Baby steps. Baby greenie-beanie mutant buddy baby steps.

Like the Beans, my son Sam is exceptionally tall. People often mistake him for older and therefore more mature, but Sam is three. Barely out of diapers and already I see the barrel chest and large square feet of his Daddy. Like the Beans, assuming he was ready, I introduced him without proper hardening to a new environment--school.

Lucas and Sam
photo: Marrisa Senteno

He has been attending an education-based daycare at my college for about three months now. He goes three days a week and the study time it provides me is essential. From what I can see it is a great place, large staff of teachers and resources, and a rotating gang of very enthusiastic education students attending to the kids.

But Sam is struggling. He often cries, a sad, foreign cry that I had never experienced. Babies and toddlers cry. They cry in need, in pain and in frustration, but the preschooler sob of genuine sadness is a new phenomenon I just can't steel against. It seems so wrong to muse happy and confident as suggested by the teachers, leaving him tear-streaked and lip-quivering on a brightly colored carpet square. When I come to get him, a mere three hours later, I might find him just standing in the room, staring. He resists engagement and he has made no friends with the quite charmed and kind children he shares a class with, despite my efforts to teach him their names and speak to them with him in tow. It is not because they don't like him, in fact each little girl lines up to hug him each day as he readies to go home, but he remains friendless. Outside of school, Sam is funny, independent, and charismatic, but his school-insecurity now carries itself to the playground when he is not accompanied by a trusted friend, like Lucas. This worries me because New York City public schools loom in our near future. If Sam cannot find enrichment in a small group with attentive and supportive teachers, I fear he might not thrive in the overcrowded classrooms of Queens. While I have tooled around search-engines on school blues, ultimately there is no Wikipedia page on Sam. He is brand new, unwitnessed. Wise offerings from friends and family, coupled with Todd and my own insecure intuition must be good enough to harden my sweet little dude without injury. Just the words themselves hurt my heart. Any friendly advice on buffering lonesome little boys would be greatly appreciated.

Thrown From the Nest



Happy Spring!
all photos this post: Allison Glasgow

Cursed, searched and longed for, Spring has finally graced New York City. Not without complication, but rebirth is rarely easy.

Sam promptly rejected the first hints of fresh air with a high fever lasting five days. My husband was out of town, leaving me to spin between late night phone harassing of the pediatrician and detailing snot rashes to my mother all on my  pitiable lonesome.

Somewhat irrationally I wanted to catch this virus, believing it to be the only way to understand what he was feeling. So Sam and I dozed wrapped together like mummies in the dim tomb of my apartment for the better part of a week. Sick baby is my worst heartache. Stress coupled with insomniac monitoring of little-bodied thick breaths likely increased my susceptibility, and when Sam emerged to health, I came down with neon eyes. Not pink eye. Neon, alien, orange... too hideous to speak of really. A condition that left us marooned for yet another week.

Meanwhile the Spinach has been sulking. Coiling and shrugging and ignoring the sun. I read in a gardening book that once the "true leaves" emerge, it is time to begin some sort of plant food. All my seedlings have had true leaves for weeks, most have cheerfully carried on building height and girth in their tiny peat pellets, but Spinach rebelled and demanded new digs. Working from rumor, minute knowledge and impatience, I have declared that Spinach doesn't need much soil and might be the perfect candidate for experimental vertical gardening. I found this very cool You Tube video with a guy growing lettuces out of pop bottles:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uDbjZ9roEQ

I figured I would give it a try. If you watch the video, you will notice that his bottles are not the typical American 20 oz that I had been collecting from my husband's minor diet soda addiction and there is no way in hecks I am coaxing 2 liters into my life, so I raided our cluttered cabinet for substitutes. I have some concerns about plastic, but these Chinese takeout soup containers have a recyclable code of 5, which I understand means they are reusable and heat resistant. Plus they have lids that will help them stack.

I cut a hole in each of the lids, one on the side, and finally one on the bottom. The bottom hole is very large to allow drainage from each container to the next, and hopefully properly water all the compartments. I realize only now that as per usual, I disregarded most instruction in the video and that large drainage hole is perhaps not ideal. Alas.


Sam checks in a dolly to the Spinach motel!
Note said snot-rash. Poor baby.

Grouchy Spinach perks at a new Home

I also cut two little holes on the backside of each container and thread a zip tie through before adding soil. These containers need to hang on something and I had the foresight--OK not foresight exactly, more concluded through experimentation as Sam's reclamation of the planters as apartments for his little toy friends--that the planters are quite unstable and cannot be expected to hold the weight of the next, so each must be individually attached to the support (in our case, a no longer needed baby gate).

The idea is that the little sprouts will be planted directly into the large opening on the side, but this proved extremely difficult. Do I add the soil first, or just stick the Spinach in and pack around it? Not to mention that these little plants were unhealthy and quite delicate. The giant hole in the bottom proved unwieldy, spilling dirt as quickly as I could shovel it. And I had serious reservations about the drainage/irrigation system. I did eventually plant the Spinach, only to hyper water it, waiting anxiously for the tell-tale condensation of moisture to travel to the very bottom container. 

So the Spinach has been ejected from the comforts of my home. Now that the sprouts are adhered to the baby gate on the balcony, they can't come back in. Of course, I set up this quite fragile and precarious plan and THEN checked the weather...tremendous rain for the next two days. Oops. Even with the forecast promising demise, I decided the Spinach deserved company. Out went the Beans, out went the Tomato and out went the Peas.

"To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.” ~Pema Chodron. 

I am sure of this truth of motherhood. I only hope the same can be said of plants.

The farm dressed for sunshine

  

The farm dressed for rainstorms





A Spring Moon is on the Rise

As we look for signs that Spring is officially here, sometimes you can come up a bit empty handed in the city. This was true when I tried to explain to my four year old that Winter is over. "Why?" he asked. "Well, because the calendar says so." It had snowed a few days prior and we were still wearing our overused down parkas. I did not have a better answer. The sprouts are doing great in their little pods overlooking an outdoor patio from the safety of indoors. Allison and I are trying our best at guessing when things should go outside to take full advantage of sun, rain, and nutrients therein. This applied to both the plants and our kids. So, where in fact is Spring?

"The moon," said my husband. 

photo: Marrisa Senteno

"The moon? What do you mean the moon?" I asked. 

"Yes the moon will tell us when it is Spring. This past moon was a big one, the biggest one, and the next moon is the one that set all growing things into motion. You will see..."

I have learned to listen to my husband when it comes to topics of the moon. He was raised a farmer, his grandfather taught him how to look at the moon to tell him when to grow plants, animals and to a certain extent, children. Well, the children really by extension of the plants and animals. Very earnest, in fact, about the moon that we have set certain important dates by the lunar calendar.

The city is not always the best place to observe the moon. We have started to teach Lucas how to look at the moon and to tell if it is getting bigger or smaller. Sometimes I cheat, I have an app on my kindle that shows the moon phase, because really in an urban setting, sometimes I can't find the moon.

Yet, very few in the city missed this past moon. It was huge, luminous and really entrancing. It was rising directly into my son's window where it would light up the apartment. And again my husband said "You see? That is the moon that says it is Spring. Everything is going to grow now, the trees are going to explode and your little plants should go out soon." So I will take his word for it, the Spring moon is here and none too soon. I hope you all did not miss it, because it was a beauty. Finally, Spring.

Invasion of the Bean Sprouts

 Once upon a time, in my rocky twenties, I guess I told my husband that I reject instruction. "Follow directions? Directions are for unimaginative weaklings!" He reminds me of this whenever there's a particularly creative cooking mishap, knitting debacle, or undecipherable craft monster blanketing the apartment. When I declared to Todd our plans for a vegetable garden both eyebrows crept up his forehead, eyelids squinted, and his smile slimmed to a grin. "Really," he said, as if I were our 3-year-old son promising that he only knows how to put shoes on if there is a cookie in his mouth. As defensive as cynicism can make me, my rebellion operates in all directions. Not only will I not be told what to do, I wont be told what I cannot do. Operation vegetable garden full-steam ahead!

With enthusiasm like this, who needs planning! photo: Allison's worthless phone

      

Fast forward one week. Marrisa and I take the boys on a trip to Home Depot to pick up the beginnings of our supplies. In preparation, I printed some basic gardening facts, but as anyone with small children can attest, reading comprehension during daylight hours declines ten-fold after the your firstborn. Somehow while frogger-dodging the boys between tablesaws and forklifts, neither one of us noticed that container gardens require their own special soil and we instead bought 4 giant bags of dirt clearly labeled with an X over a pot. Not such a big deal, except Home Depot is about 2 miles away, neither Marrisa nor I have a car and we just schlepped 160 pounds of small human and of erroneous soil through 20 degree Queens freeway tundra--not to mention Lucas was mighty hungry and Sam had what can only be described as a runny nose through his eyeball. There was no way that soil was going back (We've since found use for said incorrect soil--perfect base for the mosquito repelling flower beds in the backyard! But more on that later).

The seedlings live in Sammy's sunny room. photo: Marrisa Senteno

I had scoffed at the little seedling pots and peat pucks at the store, considering it cheating, but next trip you can bet I bypassed the soil and loaded up the cart with these magical offerings.They had the Jiffy brand and I must say, every single seed that went into these little expanding soil wombs popped a lively sprout in about 36 hours. Sam and I were in awe, watching the babies elegantly bend their necks to the sun. My favorite part of gardening thus far is the surprise of each of the different sprouts characteristics. The tomato is ragged and pointed, the cucumber fat, round and fragrant (like cucumbers!) and the broccoli is precious, wobbly with itsy heart-shaped faces. Marrisa and Lucas came over to join the fun. They planted some peas and garden beans. While I noticed the bean seeds were on the large side, nothing could prepare me for what emerged... Giant, reptilian, monstrosities, upheaving big clumps of dirt, shucking their seed skins and rocketing tentacles blindly in every direction. For a brief ridiculous moment, I feared for the other plants, safely cradled in their own pods--maybe even my own family. It was such a violent affair, suddenly Invasion of the Body Snatchers made sense. Plants can be quite creepy. Well, these at least. Marrisa took these impressive photos of their arrival

Violently erupting from the earth! photo: Marrisa Senteno

 The cucumbers are eclipsed by the beans! photo Marrisa Senteno

 

Towering Bean Stalks. photo: Allison's lousy phone

  This is how they look today, measured against the oldest of the seedlings, the tomato. The beans, younger by 3 weeks are 4 times the size. Yowza. The problem with these little peat pellets I have noticed is they don't have the root room for bigger seedlings. The roots have creeped from the mesh binding and are scrambling for purchase. It's clear I have to repot them, and soon. I was hoping to keep the seedlings inside for another 3 weeks, which means I might need to repot twice. Dangerous prospect for such a clumsy gardener as myself. Good news is, now that there is promise of an "in your face" opportunity, I feel significantly more responsible for figuring out what the crap I am doing.

Sam and I have made a habit of checking out a kid gardening book and an adult book on our weekly library trip. This weeks picks were particularly great finds: Potatoes on Rooftops by Hadley Dyer  and Sugarsnaps and Strawberries by Andrea Bellamy. Both have very practical, beginner friendly advice for small space gardens. Click on the links to buy from Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn

The Death of a Lima Bean

I refuse to admit failure so early. It was really a machine that killed said Lima Bean. A tragedy of calamity, not neglect. Before we get to the incident let us first introduce the departed.

Lucas the Farmer
photo Marrisa Senteno


 

Under the care of Lucas, the Lima was flourishing. It soon outgrew its makeshift planter and Marrisa and Lucas brought it to my place to find permanent residence in a larger water bottle "greenhouse." Here's where my "machine" accusation gets rather shaky. I did not want to keep the Lima inside because I had read reviews of the specific organic potting soil we were using that warned of bugs. I realize that organic implies life and I am not necessarily bug-shy, but I certainly am not eager to intvite them into my tiny apartment. So I decided the Lima should live outdoors with the hearty Raspberry. We indoctrinated him without the recommended "hardening" phase. And, yes, it snowed 24 hours later. Poor Lima never stood a chance.

We test the pulley
photo Marrisa Senteno

Sam gives a dismal wave to the fallen Lima
photo Marrisa Senteno



  

photo Marrisa Senteno

My "machine" story might never hold up in court, but here it is...mostly because I am so proud of my super (albeit ineffective) pulley! I proposed to Marrisa that our farm should exisit on my tiny balcony. We do have access to a charming backyard space, but our yard is also the universal litterbox for all the rouge gangs of the Cats of Queens. I give them special title, because although I cannot foresee the future, these spectacular creatures are sure to make multiple appearances in our farming adventures. Also, I looked it up, and cat feces does not qualify as manure. Problem is, our balcony does not get sunlight until much later in the season, so we must start our plants in the backyard. What we need to move the plants from yard to balcony without the hassle of trucking them upstairs is a simple pulley machine. The very day I told Sam we needed to buy pulleys, we magically found not one, but two pulleys strewn in my back yard! Thank you random New York junk-heap awesomeness.We used some shepard hooks from other failed gardening attempts and built a transportation system. The Lima was the first passenger. It was not smooth sailing. Both of it's limbs suffered injury, requiring amputation. Today, two weeks later, I declare it the first casulty. I stand by the pulley, though.
It's usefulness is not yet known.

Raspberry Standing: Hopeful.

 

photo Marrisa Senteno

 

 

photo Marrisa Senteno

This Raspberry Bush was planted much too early but is muscling its way through this ridiculous New York City Spring fake-out. Already it has seen about 4 inches of snow. Our first trip to Home Depot, we began debating the relevance of actual-intended garden planters. Marrisa and I stood brainstorming what containers we might recycle from home, having coraled the restless boys in massive stacks of plastic bins when I had a revelation that there were several large water jugs just sitting on my balcony (also known as emergency zombie apocalypse water) that might make perfect pots. My husband had lovingly rented a water cooler during my pregnancy when I could not stomach tap water. The order came with 3 large water bottles a month. After Sam's infancy, we returned the cooler, but had amassed a surplus of full bottles. They served as great baby gates for a bit, lined up and anchoring furniture throughout our apartment, but as Sam grew they eventually migrated to the balcony. We cut off the tops, borrowed my brother's cordless drill (about the best thing ever created, as our two little farmers cooed "Oooooh, what's that?" to the whur and purr of a power-tool) popped through some drainage holes, filled with soil, and TA DA! Marrisa had the brilliant foresight of keeping the tops, which serve as protection--cozy individual greenhouses. I must say, the tops are probably the only thing that has saved this hearty fella.