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“Yeah, I read that too. This one says corn really depletes the nutrients.”
We teach ourselves all about raised beds and natural pesticides, about deer fencing and cold-climate seeds. We read about drying herbs and preserving produce. I picture how cool it will be to grow our own food. If we want a salad, we’ll just go outside and pick the ingredients.
In mid April, I call the rental agent to let her know that we’re planning a garden and ask if there’s a particular spot we should put it.
“What sort of garden?” she asks. “There’s already gardens on the property.”
“I mean a vegetable garden. We’re thinking of a twenty by twenty over by the fence.”
She laughs. “I don’t think so. The owner likes her lawn, and has carefully placed the gardens where she’d like them.”
My heart sinks. “The gardens are flower gardens. We’d like to grow food.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Let me look into it,” she says. “I’ll call you back.”
Instead of calling, she drives out. She has a copy of our rental agreement in hand, and she’s highlighted a passage that says no structural changes shall be made to the property.
“A garden plot would be considered a structural change,” she says. “I’m sorry, but the owner’s pretty adamant about the care of the property. I don’t think she’d approve of it. She’s very particular.”
“Could we ask her?” I suggest.
“There’s no need. She’d say no.”
“What about a greenhouse?” Scott asks. “We could make one out of PVC and plastic. Lightweight. Easy to dismantle.”
“I’m going to have to say no. A greenhouse might ruin the grass underneath.”
Before she leaves she agrees to allow us to extend two of the perennial beds about four feet each, and to add in a rectangular one, eight feet by two feet, up against the driveway. That’s it. That’s all we have to work with.
It’s better than nothing, I guess. We’ll just make the most of it. We buy seedlings from the local greenhouse and plant them in rows as our books suggest. I also slip vegetable plants in among the perennial gardens, and I get planters from the thrift store and fill them with herbs and tomato plants, lining them up on the walkway and the driveway.
Every day we tend to the plants, watering, weeding, pruning, thinning. We observe their progress and clap our hands when we see tiny pea pods emerging from the plants’ flowers.
“That will be food!” I tell Morgen. She’s only four, but it’s never too early to learn about where food comes from. She needs to make those connections.
Soon, there are flowers on the tomato plants. Then, tiny deep green bulbs appear at the flower’s center. “Those are tomatoes!” I tell Morgen. She’s delighted by their progress, and she wants to run out to check on them as soon as she wakes up. So, every morning, I brew myself coffee on the stove, pour myself a cup, and follow her out.
“Look!” Morgen says, “a new flower!”
“Yes, you’re right!”
By mid-summer we’re able to harvest some herbs, which I bake into my loaves of fresh bread and bring to Mrs. McKinley’s.
“You should sell these for extra money,” she tells me.
“I’d love to sell my bread at the co-op,” I tell her, “but Scott looked into it, and in order to sell food, it has to be produced in a licensed commercial kitchen.”
“What does that entail?”
“It has to be separate from your residential kitchen, and it needs specific equipment. It has to have three sinks, and a stainless steel counter, and all this stuff that would take a lot of money. And we’d have to pay an inspector to come out and approve it.”
“Why not see if a local restaurant will let you use their kitchen at night?” she suggests. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t. That would solve your permit problem.”
It’s a great idea. I tell Scott about it, and while I’m at work he calls around to try to find a commercial kitchen that I could use.
“Tell them it would be a good thing for the town,” I suggest, “having bread baked locally instead of trucked in.”
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