I really want to garden. I want to plant five fingers on soft ground and push down until I am up to my knuckles, wrists, then elbows in the good stuff. I want to sniff herbs and figure out what is what, memorize colors and shades and leaf shapes until I know exactly what my dinner ingredients should look like. I want to pick a ripe tomato from a fuzzy vine and toss it from hand to hand, examining any green tinges or dark spots. I want to struggle with figuring out what to plant and where and when. I want to take a head of bok choy in my hand, cut it away from the ground, stand up, and say, “You grew. You did it.” I want someone to teach me, please, about compost, because all I know about composting is the result of a quarter-long science project in third grade that I’m pretty sure I cheated during more than once. I want to slide peas out right from their pods and pop them in my mouth. I want to till soil. I want to be sustainable — not just recycle and reuse bags but actually sustain, provide for myself and others. I want to cook a huge vegetarian feast for everyone I love. You’re all invited. There’ll be a long, rickety picnic table (it’s rickety because it has character and things that have character cannot be perfect) in a dusky field with mason jars holding tea lights. There’ll be fireflies and cold beers and mismatched silverware. It’ll be warmer than it is tonight but bring a light jacket so you can stay late. I promise leftovers.


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