I’m not the search for the meaning of life type. I don’t require an explanation of how the pyramids were built or to understand what the Big Bang theory even is. I take it for what it is to me—magic.
I’m not scientific, but rather gung-ho creative and ultra visual, so I’m mostly a captive audience. I adore nature and worship at the altar of a sunset and the majesty of a redwood. And I love to garden, mostly by feel, barely knowing the names of any plant or what it needs other than sun, water and love. They seem to love me back.
But lately, I’ve experienced what feels like an empty nest. I don’t have children, my nieces live 3,000 miles away, and my precious cat Sophie recently died. My houseplants and overgrown driveway/succulent garden get most of my unrequited maternal oomph, although my husband and Shepherd often reap the Martha Stewart in me. And still I want more—more to love.
A few weeks ago I was given an extraordinary gift, to take over a plot in a community garden smack in the middle of the city. A hidden oasis in plain view, fraught with tomato plants, artichokes, grape vines and a plethora of avocado and fruit trees.
I was nervous, since I know nothing about growing veggies, but when someone needs me to rescue an orphan, I’m all in. The plot was covered in thigh-high weeds, wilted yellow grape tomatoes and wrinkled kale. I watered like crazy and cut back everything that was brown. Then I got help.
George lives with his boyfriend on Hollywood Boulevard. “Ciao Nina, I live on a freeway!” he blurts as we walk through the elegantly hedged-in front yard with beautiful magnolia trees and a koi pond. Sounds very West Hollywood glam, doesn’t it? Not so fast.
Ushering me into an open kitchen looking out onto a vast patio, I see past the pool, up the hill, into a densely covered fruit orchard and vegetable plot. “I feel like speaking to you in Italian,” he says. “My tutor just left. Today we cooked lunch from the garden, and she taught me kitchen talk. It’s very important to me to connect to my roots.” I’m excited about the language, but more about the homegrown zucchini.
As he tells me about his childhood in Chicago, as a first-generation American, I get teary, wanting to be closer to my own Italian heritage. “My father emigrated in 1950 and brought with him his love of gardening,” he says. “So when I grew up, every spring was a celebration of the end of the sub-zero winter, and he’d be out in his vegetable garden non-stop. That’s how I learned about urban farming. I even brought cuttings from my dad’s original plantings.” Talk about close to your roots.
“I have a fig, olive and orange trees, artichokes, kale, peppers, tomatoes, squash, lettuces and cucumbers—it’s a Mediterranean, producing landscape. I believe in indoor/outdoor living.” Clearly.
“Are you afraid of bees?”
I’m not, not really, but what—why?!
“We have two producing beehives and before you ask, I do get stung, but it’s amazing honey, and I love supporting a correct ecosystem in my small way.”
As we leave his farm with armfuls of plants for mine my head spins with possibilities. Six tomatoes, six zucchinis, arugula, bell peppers, cucumbers, herbs and watermelons! We rake and mulch the beds and dig holes for the plants, as he teaches me about the eventual size of things. Choosing the correct placement for both space and appearance is key.
“The zucchinis will spread out, and the tomatoes will grow up, so let’s put the watermelons around them to crawl in between.” I am as ecstatic as a six-year-old kid with a new set of Legos. Three hours later, we are planted and watered, and I am high from being covered in dirt and anticipation.
“Wait a few weeks and see what happens,” he says with a Cheshire grin.
I go every other day, humming as I water, gushing with gratitude and nurturing overload. After two weeks, the tomatoes triple in size and need caging. The watermelons are rampant and the squash have flowers. Nine more days and I pick zucchinis, kale, Swiss chard and basil. That night, I add them to sautéed sweet chopped tomatoes from a garden neighbor, and we eat penne primavera from my garden. It’s such a basic ritual, and yet huge joy to eat food I grew myself and transform my empty nest into a blooming harvest.
Va tutto bene.
