We empathize with the East Coast in the midst of this year’s snow storm. That is, when we’re not busy planting heirloom tomatoes, mixed lettuce and herbs.
Okay, I’m sorry for rubbing it in. When I moved to California, after living in the Midwest, the Big Apple, Savannah, Houston and several other places in between, I was afraid I would never get used to the cultural distance. I love the beach, but it doesn’t replace political conversation, live jazz, dance companies, creative theatre or good restaurants. Little did I know that I would find the love of my life here.
The sunshine tax overwhelmed me. A cottage worth about $75,000 in the rest of the country costs half a million in most of southern California, or did up until last year. When it rains here for more than 15 minutes, you watch your money flying around with the drops on your windshield. Yeah, we know the rain is good, we don’t have any water.
I missed the changing seasons, the snow, crisp fall evenings, the first signs of spring. Then I bought a bungalow in the city on a half acre of land. The backyard was covered with Bermuda grass. You’ve all heard me on that subject. Slowly, but surely, we are getting rid of the BG and planting an organic garden.
I am totally in love. I ooh and aah over the first little green shoots of lettuce. Cry over apricot blossoms. Drool at the thought of heirloom tomatoes. Become orgasmic when the okra blooms. Who would have thought this Midwestern, Northeastern, city urban sophisticate (well that’s the way I think of myself), is at heart just a little old farm girl. Comments from the monkey gallery are not welcome. Food not Lawns!
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